


Beyond the Pale

by rubberbutton



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Case Fic, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbutton/pseuds/rubberbutton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case of a dead runaway leads to a sex trafficking ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Pale

**Author's Note:**

> _Ashes to Ashes_ isn't canon for the purposes of this fic.
> 
> A million and one thanks to the brilliant Elynittria for her betaing efforts. Ta!

April 1974

Even for a murder scene, it was grim. The boy lay on his back, limbs akimbo, his dead gaze fixed skyward. His hair would have been copper if it had been clean instead of soaked with blood and the mucky water of a back-alley cesspit. He'd been badly beaten and the bruising was disfiguring, but Sam could still sort of see what he must have looked like when he'd been alive: a slim, pale youth, with freckles and a lopsided smile. Okay, he was guessing about the grin, but still.

The edges of the pool of blood were smeared and the pattern vaguely familiar. Like a snow-angel, Sam realised. "He didn't die quickly," he said and looked up at the Guv, who was overseeing the proceedings with his usual air of boredom. "He lay in a pool of his own blood, weakening, until death overcame him."

"You're a right poet, you are," Gene growled. "What killed him? 'Sides the unfairness of it all."

"I'll have to wait for the coroner's report."

"Course you will." The Guv snorted to show what he thought of people who waited for coroner's reports and didn't make wild guesses before they'd got all the evidence. He crouched next to Sam and took up one of the victim's arms. He wasn't wearing gloves, and Sam squelched the impulse to protest. The tell-tale bruising ran along the inside of the victim's arm; the track marks were old and yellowed now, but there was no mistaking them. "A fucking junkie," Gene muttered in disgust. "Right, so: he couldn't pay his dealer and the dealer sorted it out for himself."

Gene cut Sam off before he could argue, adopting a shrill falsetto. "You can't know that, Guv. You should wait for all the e-_vi_-dence." He dropped back to his normal register. "And then I say, 'I don't need all the evidence, I've got the facts I require right here.' And then you drag me about town like a rat dragging his bollocks through the sewer, wasting my time until you finally come to the conclusion I was right all along. So maybe we can skip all that and you just say, 'You're right, Guv, as you always are' and we go out for a pint."

"We don't have all the required facts," Sam said. "And that's not how I sound!"

"You're not the one who's got to listen to your yapping all day – I am." He stood and grabbed a hold of Sam's jacket, pulling him up after. "Come on, we'll go see what the coroner says."

—

The coroner's report was, in sum: blunt force trauma; significant bruising over thirty percent of the body; cracked ribs, skull and left tibia; and internal bleeding.

"But this," the coroner said, indicating a small cut between the bottom two ribs on the body's left side, "was what killed him. A slender, non-serrated blade. Five or six inches long. A stiletto, perhaps."

"Switchblade, more like," Gene said.

"This was no ordinary beating, Guv," Sam said as he followed Gene out of the mortuary. "They were making an example of him."

"'Cause he didn't pay up. And how do you know there's more than one killer?"

"What, you think the murderer used one instrument to beat the kid and then switched to a knife to kill him, when another blow to the head would achieve the same thing?" Sam shook his head. "Besides, there were no defensive wounds. The victim was conscious for most of the attack; he would have at least tried to protect himself, if not fight back. Unless one man held him while another beat him."

Gene considered that, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. He nodded once, indicating he accepted the theory. "So the dealer got one of his mates to come along."

"We still don't know that's the motive," Sam said and continued before Gene could start up that argument again. "I don't think we'll know the motive until we know who the victim is." There hadn't been any identification on the body, not so much a ticket stub, and no missing person report matched, either.

"I suppose you want to drag me about town like the rat's bollocks?"

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "Your words."

—

It was dusk when they made it back to the neighbourhood where the kid had been killed. Girls, some looking no older than fourteen, stood on the corners, their thin coats scant protection against the early spring chill. Their smiles were wide, but their eyes were dead and hard.

The Guv slowed the car, crawling along the kerb, and one of the women approached. Her hair was platinum but the roots were dark and her make-up failed to hide the circles under her eyes.   
She leaned against the car door as Sam rolled down the window.   
"You looking for a good time?"

"Sweetheart, I _am_ a good time," Gene said, leaning over Sam to address the prostitute. He flashed his badge. "Now, you know that kid that copped it yesterday?"

"Red hair, about five foot eight," Sam added. Gene glared at him in a way that probably meant shut up, but Sam ignored him, holding out a picture of the victim on the mortuary slab.

The prostitute's expression didn't change, but something closed off in her eyes. "Nah, I don't know nothing about that. Poor boy," she added, her voice going soft.

"Right, thanks, love," Gene said, pulling away from the kerb with a screech of tyres.

"What are you _doing_?" Sam protested. "She knew something. She flinched when she saw the photograph."

"Maybe she just doesn't like her meat tenderized," Gene said. "'Sides, prozzies always know more than they let on. It's easier to get things in them than out of them." They crossed over into Kingston. The people loitering here were mostly young men, leaning against the wall, the tips of their cigarettes bright in the dark; they didn't look up as the Cortina passed.

"Pull over," Sam said.

"Like hell," Gene replied.

Sam grabbed hold of the steering wheel and yanked. The Cortina's front wheel went up and over the kerb; Gene slammed on the brakes, swearing violently. By the time he recovered, Sam was out of the car.

"That's it. I'm leaving you here, Sammy-boy."

Sam didn't look back, but he heard the car drive off. He turned his collar up, refusing to look back. He didn't approach any of the men directly. Instead, he'd stroll past, making brief eye contact, and duck down the next alley. Then he'd wait; a minute or two later, the man in question would follow, sidling up next to him.

"You a cop?" a teenager with a jeans jacket and overgrown fringe asked after Sam had asked about the dead boy.

"I … no," Sam said, ignoring the twinge of guilt. "Just a friend looking for some answers." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a brown Cortina crawl past before driving on.

"You're better off not knowing." The kid raked his hair out of his eyes. "Now, do you want me to suck you or not?"

"How old are you? Fifteen?" Sam said, unable to keep the note of horror from his voice. "You should be at home with your mother."

The kid scowled. "Fuck you." He turned and ran off before Sam could say anything else. And that wasn't even the worst exchange of the evening. One of the men got Sam up against the wall and his zip undone before Sam could get to his question. He shoved the teen away, getting himself together just before he saw Gene drive by again.

The kid backed up in a hurry when Sam pushed him away, and Sam could see him tense to run as he realised that Sam wasn't a john.

"Look, I'm not here to arrest you. I just want to talk. Can you identify this boy?" he said, a bit breathless, shoving the picture at the youth, who was painfully thin, the cheekbones high and prominent. "He was killed last night."

The youth took another step back, blanching. "God."

"Wait, you do know him?"

The kid hesitated and then nodded. "His name's Robbie Carter."

"Do you know where he lived?"

The youth shook his head, eyes wide and fixed on the photograph. Sam tugged it back and put it away and the kid seemed to snap out of it.

"No. He were a rent-boy, like me. I'd see him out sometimes."

"Did you see him last night?"

The boy shook his head. "Haven't seen him for a month. I thought he'd got a new spot. This one's getting crowded."

"Tyler!"

Sam stiffened, gritting his teeth. He turned on his heel, glaring at Gene, who was bearing down on him like a train.

"If you're done dancing with the fairies, we've got real work we could be doing."

"I thought you were leaving me here," Sam said, keeping his tone level, but only barely. "I'm conducting an interview."

"I'm DCI Hunt– " Gene started to introduce himself. " – Oh, there he goes. Quick little bugger, ain't he?"

Sam whirled to see his only lead disappearing around the corner at the end of the alley. "Dammit!" He started after the boy, or would have if Gene hadn't grabbed him by the collar and hauled him back. He spun Sam around and shoved him into the brick wall of the alley, holding him there with a forearm across his chest.

Sam fought for breath. He'd had a lot of practice being thrown into walls since coming here, but it had gotten no less painful. "That was my only lead, you bastard!"

"No officer of mine is going to waltz about back-alleys with pillow-biters, letting them get to know his todger for information. Or was that just for fun?"

Sam felt his face heat; he hadn't thought Gene had seen that. "It wasn't like that." He pushed back, but Gene held him firmly and Sam wasn't quite ready to escalate this into a real fight. "It is our job as detectives to go where the case leads us. No matter how it offends our delicate sensibilities."

"It's not my sensibilities it offends," Gene said, finally stepping back.

"Don't tell me you have some objection on _religious_ grounds," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

"No," Gene agreed. "I don't give a stuff about the Bible or what the vicars say, either. Half of them are bending the choir boys over a pew before church on Sunday anyway." He pointed an accusing finger at Sam. "But I have to maintain the reputation of this department."

"Was this before or after the backhanders, extra-legal beatings, intimidation and harassment?" Sam said, sneering.

"I'm doing this to protect us, and you're one of us, Sammy, whether you like it or not."

"I'm not the one who needs protection – they are," he said, making a sweeping gesture to indicate the street, the neighbourhood, the whole of bloody Manchester. "Robbie Carter needed your protection."

That gave Gene pause. "His name was Robbie Carter?"

"Yeah. Bet his parents wonder what happened to him."

"I doubt it. Come on," Gene said, and grabbed the back of Sam's neck, propelling him towards the Cortina.

—

There were records for four Robert Carters in Manchester: two were over thirty, and one answered his phone. But the fourth had been enrolled in South Chadderton Secondary School last year. Sam got the information from the school's secretary, scrawling the address on a notepad.

"Oi, Tyler!"

Sam, about to head out of CID, stopped abruptly. Gene had been safely ensconced in his office when Sam had left his desk. It was like the man had a sixth sense for knowing when Sam was trying to avoid notice. No wonder he'd made DCI by forty.

"Just where are you headed?"

"Follow-up on the Carter case," Sam said, gesturing vaguely hoping to escape just this once.

"Yeah, I thought I told you to let me handle it?"

"Guv, shuffling the case to the bottom of the pile is not handling it. Unless you think it's particularly likely that the killer's going to march in here, neatly typed confession in hand, saying 'I did it, take me away.'" He could feel Chris and Ray watching them. Chris was tucked away behind a newspaper, but he kept sneaking glances over the top. Ray didn't even try to hide his interest in the proceedings.

"It's my department and you're my DI and you'll do things my way, however lacking you think my methods." Gene had closed the space between them and they were chest to chest. The proximity made Sam's skin prickle uncomfortably, but he literally couldn't back down and expect to win the fight.

"Robbie Carter turned sixteen last March. He got top marks in Literature and Latin. His teachers report he was a sweet kid, a bit shy."

"Nice kids don't end up smoking the pink cigar for drugs in back-alleys." Ray and Chris snickered at this.

"This one did. We owe it to his mum to tell her what happened to her son. And we owe it to Robbie to do everything we can to catch his murderer. So stay here if you like; I'm going to go do my job." He turned and made a satisfyingly dramatic exit.

Gene caught up to him in the car park, indicating Sam should follow him as he got in the Cortina, like this had all been his idea.

"Sam," he said, turning the ignition. His tone was conversational.

"Yeah, Guv?"

"Don't ever question me in front of my men again."

Sam shrugged. "Then don't ever give me reason to."

—

The Carters lived north of Manchester, in a neighbourhood that had once been nice, but was no longer kept up.

"Don't say 'poof'," Sam said as they waited on the step. "Or fairy, queer, gayboy. Or mattress-biter."

"How about Marmite-miner?"

"Not that either. Just … have some sensitivity."

Gene clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stagger. "Sammy, it's like you don't even know me."

The woman who answered the door was a lot like the neighbourhood: handsome but no longer kept up. Her skin and hair were almost the same shade of grey as her housecoat, but there was an elegance to her bearing and a deliberation to her movements that suggested the graceful woman she'd once been.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her brow furrowing. Her nose was pink, as though she'd been crying, and it was the only spot of colour on her face.

"I'm DCI Hunt. This is DI Tyler and we're here about that non–"

"We're here about your son, Mrs Carter."

"Henry?" she said. "What's he done?"

"Not Henry. Your other son. Robert," Sam said. "May we please come in?"

Her face tightened, and he thought she might turn them away, or at least try – Gene looked ready to shove her aside if she proved reluctant. After a moment, though, she swallowed nervously and said, "Yes, of course. Won't you take tea?"

"We'd love to," Gene said with a smile that Sam deeply mistrusted, but was left with no choice but to trail after.

Sam perched awkwardly on the chesterfield while Gene stretched out beside him, his arm across the couch's back. The sitting room was as faded as its mistress, but the various knick-knacks were carefully arranged and immaculately dusted.

"Milk and sugar?" Mrs Carter asked.

Sam shook his head and accepted the teacup. "Mrs Carter, I'm afraid I have some bad news about Robbie. Some very bad news."

"He's died, hasn't he?" Mrs Carter stirred her tea, her spine painfully straight. She kept her eyes down.

"Yes," Sam said as gently as he could. Informing family was never easy, but he'd found it was better to be straightforward.

"Murdered, actually. Beaten to death," Gene said. Sam shot him a look, and he shrugged slightly as if to say _well, it's true._

Mrs Carter fumbled the spoon as she set it down and it fell to the floor. She retrieved it and returned it to the coffee table before saying, "My poor boy."

"When was the last time you saw Robbie?"

"Almost a year, I think," she said, her voice as clear and brittle as glass. "He ran away last June and I haven't seen him since. Not so much as a postcard." She gave a little cry, somewhere between a sob and a hiccough.

"Do you know why Robbie ran away?" Sam started to ask, but Gene interrupted half-way through.

"Mrs Carter, did you know the boy was a limp-wristed sodomite?"

Mrs Carter looked up, angry. "Robert is no such thing. He's a good boy! Was. He _was_ a good boy." And her face crumpled again. "He was sensitive."

"Yeah, I'll bet he was. Good at sensing other people's pricks."

Mrs Carter's mouth dropped open and Sam said, "I apologise for DCI Hunt, Mrs Carter. He's accustomed to the rougher element. Now, do you know why Robbie ran away?"

"He'd been upset. His father went to prison four years ago. I have to work and I wasn't up to raising two boys. I didn't know how to help him."

The front door swung open, banging against the wall. A young man came in, slinging his coat over the bannister. His resemblance to Robbie was strong – same colouring, same build – but he was several years older. He froze as he caught sight of Sam and Gene.

"Mum?"

"Come sit down, Henry," Mrs Carter said. "This is DCI Hunt and DI Tyler."

Henry slunk into the room and sat by his mother, his shoulders hunched and his contempt clear from the curl of his lip.

"Your brother's been killed," Sam said. Emotion flickered across the boy's face, but it wasn't grief; it was disgust. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"I dunno," Henry said. "'Bout a year, I guess."

"And where were you the night of the twenty-third of April?"

"Pub. I go with me mates after our shift's over."

"Good lad," Gene said approvingly.

"Mrs Carter, may we please speak to Henry alone?" Sam asked. She nodded and rose, retreating upstairs as if she were in a trance.

"Did you know your brother was gay?" Sam asked, beating Gene to the punch.

Henry's scowl deepened. "Yeah, be hard to miss. Caught him snogging one of his little friends after school when I got off early."

"And you let that stand?" Gene said, leaning forward and settling his elbows on his knees.

"'Course not. I beat seven shades of shit out of the both of them. Can't tolerate that stuff under my roof."

"How old was he?" Sam asked, trying and mostly failing to keep the anger from his voice. "Fifteen? Sixteen?"

Henry shrugged. "I was doin' him a favour, tryin' to teach him a lesson. But the little ponce just got careful when he was sneakin' around."

"So you ran him off. Makes sense," Gene said. "And did you kill him as well?"

"No! I haven't seen him since he left." Henry mirrored Gene's posture, facing off over the table. "And it's a good thing, too. I might have done him in myself, if I 'ad."

Gene grabbed Henry by the front of the shirt and hauled him out of his chair and across the table. A small part of Sam's brain reminded him that this was abuse and it was his job to stop it; a larger part of his brain admired how effortlessly Gene manhandled the bastard.

Gene had Henry face-down on the worn Axminster, a hand on his neck and a knee in the small of his back. "Now you listen to me, sonny Jim. That boy may have been a fruit-picking arsebandit, but he was still your little brother. He met as ugly an end as any I've seen. That's on your head." Gene gave the boy one last shove and stood. "And I hope to God it haunts you the rest of your life."

Henry sprang to his feet, bristling like a cat. "You care 'cause you're a poofter?"

Already half-way to the door, Gene stopped and his shoulders stiffened in a way that set off alarms in Sam's head. He grabbed Gene's elbow to keep him from turning around and killing Henry.

"Come on, Guv. No use hanging around here," Sam said, tugging Gene forward. Gene resisted but then left, not so much as glancing over his shoulder.

"Fuck you and your boyfriend!" Henry shouted, when the door was safely closed behind them.

"You're not going to badger me about roughing up a witness, are you?" Gene asked as they made their way back to the car.

"No," Sam said, buckling his seatbelt. "If you hadn't done it, I would have."

They rode in silence on the way back to the CID. Sam was distracted, thinking of poor Robbie Carter, turned out of his own home, left to fend for himself. There were very few options for kids like that and too often it was the pimps who got to them first.

"Sam," Gene said, startling him. He hadn't realised they'd arrived in the CID car park. Sam shook himself and made to exit the car, but Gene wasn't moving, obviously readying himself to say something. Sam settled back.

"Yeah, Gene?"

"I'm not, you know."

"Not what?" Sam said, genuinely confused.

"A poof."

Sam laughed loudly in surprise and amusement. "I'd guessed as much. A person would have to be blind – and deaf and quite possibly dead – to think you were anything other than a raging heterosexual."

"All right, then." Gene said, straightening his tie. "That's good. And I know that you are as well."

"...Right," Sam said, still amused. "Nothing but raging heterosexuals here." He shook his head and got out of the car.

Back at his desk, Sam went over the details of the case. The coroner had put the time of death between seven o'clock and midnight. None of the prostitutes who'd talked to him had reported seeing or hearing anything usual, though Sam guessed that furtive men dragging a body about probably wouldn't be considered unusual in that part of town.

He followed up on Henry Carter's alibi. His mates all swore up and down he'd been with them at the pub, which wasn't surprising, but the barman corroborated the story. Even said he'd remembered Henry clearly because he'd gotten shirty when the barman had chucked him out at closing time. Sam calculated and recalculated the time, but if the pub had closed at half eleven, there was no way Henry could have made it down to Manchester in time to off his brother, even driving like a maniac.

Two over-sized hands smacked down on his desk, startling him badly.

"Sammy! We're off to the pub. You?" Gene said. Chris and Ray were already in their coats, and Ray's expression said just how much he'd hoped the invitation wouldn't be extended to Sam.

"No, you go on. I'll be there in a bit; I just want to try and work through this once more."

Gene snorted and said, "You've got your priorities all wrong."

They departed, leaving Sam to the merciful quiet. But the silence proved distracting and he got up to pace, hoping the blood flow would give him an idea. He threw himself back into his chair and then bounced back up, grabbing his leather jacket.

He was missing something; he'd have to go back to the crime scene.

—

The blood was still there, dried to blackish-brown on the pavement. He wished he had a blood-splatter analyst, or even just a black light. The clues had to be here; they always were. He just had to find them. With nothing but his torch, he managed to find more blood: a spattering of droplets along the alley. No, they weren't really spatters; there was nothing along the walls to indicate a spray of blood from a blow. At least not that he could find.

The blood was all on the ground, had probably dripped from the body. In places, it had been smeared. They had dragged him to the back of the alley. The beating itself must have happened elsewhere, probably somewhere more convenient, then they'd dumped the body here.

He followed the blood back to the street, hoping his luck would continue, but he found nothing. He kicked some rubbish, which he turned over with the toe of his boot, but the strong stench of urine prevented him from investigating it more closely.

He wandered the streets then, trying not to feel like a john on the prowl, observing the pulse of the street. An occasional car would drive by, and more than once it would slow to a crawl as its owner eyed Sam. Did he look like a sex worker? His trousers _were_ a bit snug.

He approached a man loitering outside an off-licence, not quite joining him, just taking a position on the shop's other corner, trying to strike a casual pose.

"Look, mate, I don't know what you're playing at, but this is my spot. So piss off."

"I'm not interested in poaching any of your trade," Sam said.

"I don't give a flying fuck what you're interested in. I told you to fuck off." The man dropped his cigarette and ground it out. "So unless you want Perry's muscle to sort it out for you, I suggest you peddle your bony arse elsewhere."

"Who's Perry?"

The man gave him a look of disbelief and disgust. "You taking the piss?"

"Actually, no." Sam pulled out his ID and held it up. "But I'm quite interested. So unless you'd like to be taken in for solicitation, perhaps you'd better enlighten me. Who's Perry?"

"Me fairy godmother," the man sneered. "You don't scare me, copper. Best you run along. Why don't you go fit someone up? You lot are good at that."

Sam weighed the aggro of arresting the punk against the satisfaction of throwing him in a cell, but sadly concluded it wasn't worth the effort. "Yeah, cheers." He walked away, popping the collar of his coat as the wind picked up. He meant to head back to his bed-sit; he'd gotten as much as he thought he could for the night.

The boy was in the shadow of a doorway and Sam didn't seem him until he called out, "Oi, copper."

Sam turned; it was the same youth who'd given him Robbie's name. The kid slouched forward, hands tucked deep into his pockets.

"Hey," Sam said, keeping his posture relaxed even though his heart started racing.

"You're trying to get Robbie's killer?" the kid asked, a tremulous note creeping into his voice, belying his bravado.

"Yeah. Be easier if people wouldn't run off when I'm trying to talk to them."

The kid shrugged. "Got spooked. Cops are bad news."

Sam hesitated. "Was Robbie a mate of yours?"

"Nah." The kid shrugged. "I'd just seen him around sometimes."

"You said you hadn't seen him in a while. Do you know where he went? Or who he was hanging out with?"

"He was living with some posh bloke, who set him up nice. Robbie was a lot prettier than me." The kid smiled bitterly, all sharp cheekbones and crooked teeth.

"I don't suppose you know his name?"

"Ellis, or something like it. A naff professor at the university."

"Thank you. Do you know anything else? Any detail, anything at all. It's all important."

"I don't know nothing else. Me and Robbie weren't friends, like I said. But I don't want his killers to do me like they done him."

"I'm going to bring those bastards in, I promise," Sam said and produced a fiver from his pocket. It wasn't much, but the kid tucked it away quickly enough. "Thanks for your help."

The kid ducked his head, his fringe obscuring his eyes, and retreated down the street. Sam watched him go, disappearing into the darkness. He heard the squeal of tires and a revving engine and turned, expecting to see a Cortina barrelling down the street. But the car was a white Ford Anglia, with men hanging out of its open windows.

Three men rode in the car, and Sam could hear them before they were half way down the street, whooping and shouting, winding each other up. The car wove up over the kerb and back onto the road, screeching to a stop near Sam.

"Hey, sweetheart. How much for a blow job?" one of them yelled to Sam, while his mates laughed uproariously. Sam bit back a smart-arse remark and started walking, refusing to look at them. His police ID was in his pocket and he wondered if it would be enough to deter further harassment. Except they probably hated coppers more than they hated gays. If he wasn't any fun, perhaps they'd move on.

The driver pulled the car around, matching Sam's pace while they called obscene invitations and insults, their voices thick with alcohol.

"Come on, love. Show us your tits," one suggested. "Come here and have a real man for once."

"Move along, boys," Sam shouted back, unable to hold his tongue any longer. "You've had your fun. Go sleep it off."

"Full of piss and vinegar tonight, aren't you?"

One, a large man dressed head to toe in denim, jumped from the still moving car, running to close the ground between them. The car stopped and his mates piled out.

"Look," Sam said, turning to face them. "Really, there's no reason for trouble."

"No, I don't think you will be any trouble."

"You don't understand. I'm a co–" But the man's fist came up in a brutal punch to the diaphragm, and Sam's explanation left with the rest of his breath. He managed to stagger backwards, his vision blurring. He straightened and sidestepped the next blow, catching the man's wrist and bringing it up behind his back sharply. The man grunted, and Sam delivered a Gene Hunt-patented punch to the kidneys. The man hit the ground hard, curling in on himself. Sam spun just in time to dodge another of the thugs; this one had a knuckle-duster. Sam jabbed him hard in the throat with an elbow, but was too slow to intercept the third man's kick. It caught his knee and sent a shock of pain through him as the leg gave out. He landed on all fours, someone punching him in the back of the head as he went down.

He punched someone – he wasn't sure which one – in the groin, their shriek of pain grimly satisfying. The victory quickly faded as he took another kick to the ribs. If he stayed down, he was lost. He pushed himself up onto his good leg. He used the heel of his palm to shove the denim fan's nose into his face, before he took a punch that blacked his eye and made the world spin. Someone had his elbows, holding them back.

He found himself facing Knuckle-duster, fist cocked and ready to deal Sam a face-shattering blow. Sam did what any highly experienced police officer with extensive hand-to-hand combat training would do: he shut his eyes and prayed.

The blow didn't come. Instead he heard a loud cracking sound and found Knuckle-duster crumbled in an unconscious – or worse – heap at his feet.

"Nobody beats the shit out of my DI," Gene said, the upswing of his lead pipe taking out Denim-fiend. "Except me."

He turned to the last man, who looked from the bloodied pipe to Gene's enraged face and back, and then turned and ran for the car, taking off with a squeal of tyres.

"Thanks," Sam said, and he would have added something jaunty like, _I had it under control_, but the vision in his good eye started to grey and the pavement bucked wildly under him.

"Easy there, Sammy-boy." Gene grabbed him, his arm going around Sam's waist, steadying him. "They did quite a number on you." And, God, the man was huge. Like a mountain, or some big, huge … thing. And also very warm.

That last punch may have scrambled his brains a bit, there.

"The car's this way," Gene said, man-handling him easily as Sam kept the weight off his bad knee.

"Shouldn't we …" Sam started, nodding in the direction of the fallen thugs.

"No. We shouldn't," Gene said firmly.

Gene got Sam into the car, and then stowed the pipe under the seat. Sam assumed that's where he usually kept it.

"How'd you find me?" Sam said, trying to find some position that would ease his throbbing knee and failing.

"You didn't show up at the pub and you weren't at the station. Where else would you be, except out getting ten bells knocked out of you?" He made a tight left turn and Sam winced as the centripetal force threw him about like a ragdoll. "Jesus, Tyler. That lot could have killed you."

"But I got a lead – "

"As if that makes it worth it," Gene said, disgusted. "I should kill you myself for being so daft."

"I was doing my job," Sam said, heatedly, but that made his face hurt, so he leant against the window, pressing the cool glass to his swelling eye.

"And now you're smudging up the glass." Gene shifted his grip on the steering wheel. "Robbie Carter's dead and gone; there's no point in you joining him."

"Ellis," Sam said suddenly, afraid he had a concussion and wouldn't remember. "A professor. Robbie may have been staying with him."

"That's your lead?" Gene snorted. "And for which one of my many sins did you saddle me with this divvy DI, Lord? Smite me with the plague. Turn me to a pillar of salt. But Sam Tyler? Even Job was spared Sam bleeding Tyler."

"You should take that act to the West End," Sam said. "I had no idea you had such a flair for the dramatic."

"Shut your gob before I shut it for you."

Sam doubted Gene was serious but he shut up anyway, talking not really being worth the effort. It wasn't until Gene parked the car in front of his own house that Sam realised they hadn't been headed to his flat.

"What are we doing?"

"Your brains are dribbling out of your ears; you can't be left alone. And who else is going to be checking on you? You haven't got any friends. So it looks like you're left to my tender care."

"God help me."

"Now who's being dramatic?"

Sam used the car's bonnet to steady himself as he unsteadily made his way out of the car. He thought the knee was sprained, but there were probably no torn ligaments, which was a relief. He paused as he reached the other side of the car and was faced with the now-daunting stretch of walk up to the house. Gene didn't take Sam's waist again, but he did offer his arm, which Sam gratefully took. He felt ridiculous, like a girl being escorted home. Sam nearly stumbled on the last stair up to the door, and Gene steadied him with a hand to the small of his back.

"Be a shame if you faced Manchester's worst only to be done in by stairs." Gene made sure he wasn't going to topple over and then unlocked the door.

It was immediately obvious that the ex-Mrs Hunt was no longer in residence as Gene switched on a lamp. He had to clear a pile of newspapers and take-away cartons from the couch so Sam could sit down, a process which entailed using an arm to sweep everything to the floor.

"I'll go and get you some paracetamol, shall I?" Gene said once Sam had settled himself.

"And a blanket. And some warm milk," Sam called after him as he disappeared down the hallway.

Gene didn't come back with warm milk, though he did have the promised paracetamol and a first aid kit, besides.

"If your kecks are too tight to roll the leg up, they'll have to come off, but that knee needs to be looked at. Don't worry, Gertrude, I'm not after your mott today." Sam looked at him to see if Gene was just taking the piss, but Gene's expression did not invite argument. Luckily Sam was able to get his trousers rolled up far enough for Gene's satisfaction. The knee was swollen and purpling along the side. Gene wrapped a bag of frozen peas in a cloth and slapped it against the injury, setting about binding it in place with an elastic bandage.

Sam hissed, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

"That hurt, do it?" Gene said around the cigarette hanging from his lips. "Serves you right for being a twat." He finished the bandage and tucked in the end. He was crouched before Sam, looking up at him with a deeply aggrieved expression. "I could still be at the pub, if it weren't for you. Now Ray's got out of buying me a round, the wanker. Hike your shirt up." Sam looked at him in confusion. Gene gestured to his own midsection. "You took a nasty kick to the ribs. Wouldn't be surprised if you'd broken one."

"Right." He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled his undershirt up to his nipples.

"So modest," Gene said, stubbing out his cigarette in an overflowing tray and blowing the last lungful of smoke into Sam's face. "I had a maiden aunt who wore her bathers in the tub. You make her look like a two-bit tart."

His left side was black and blue, the discoloured skin raised and ugly. Gene whistled in appreciation.   
"I've seen worse, but not lately." He poked the bruise with two fingers. Sam jumped and glared. "That smart?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

Gene rolled his eyes, said, "Not enough to be broken," and continued to palpate the injury. Sam tried not to wince at each new prod of those blunt fingers, but sweat beaded along his brow.

"I've probably got internal bleeding," Sam said, his jaw still clenched.

"Good." Then, at Sam's incredulous look, "Less mess." He finished and sat back on his heels. "I don't think you've any broken ribs, but there may be fractures, so best to wrap it up." He got another of the elastic bandages. "Here, hold the end, while I bind it." Gene took Sam's hand and placed it on the bandage's tail, pinning it in place against his sternum. "Sit up a bit, will you?"

Sam did so, as much as he could, anyway, and Gene passed the roll of bandage around his back under Sam's shirt, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of Sam's back. The touch unaccountably sent a shiver through Sam, whose body was wound up from pain and endorphins.

"Sorry, just a bit more," Gene said, misinterpreting the shudder. On the second pass, Sam didn't need to hold the bandage, so he was left awkwardly holding his arms out of the way, like he was frozen the moment before a hug. A few more passes and Gene came to the end of the bandage.

"That … actually helped," Sam said, surprised as the pain in his ribs abated to a dull ache.

"Learned that in the Service, when I wasn't learning to kill people. Now you put this on your face." He tossed another bag of frozen vegetables – carrots, this time – at Sam, who caught it and gingerly pressed it to his swollen eye. Gene pushed himself up onto the couch next to Sam and produced a flask from his pocket. He took a long swig and held it out to Sam, but Sam waved it away. "Suit yourself." Gene raised the flask in a toast and drained the rest of it. "Well, I'm off to Bedfordshire. You'll be all right, will you?" He stood and stretched, giving Sam one last sceptical look.

"Yeah. Um, thanks."

Gene sniffed philosophically. "Can't have the rabble caving in my DI's head. It reflects poorly on the department." And he shuffled off, his footfalls heavy on the stairs.

Sam slept very poorly, the strange surroundings and the lingering pain keeping him from deeper sleep. When he did drift off, he dreamt of drowning in one of the canals, the water deep and dark and an undertow pulling him down. He was a strong swimmer, but the harder he kicked, the deeper he sank. Until he quit fighting and let himself drift.

And the drowning really wasn't so bad.

—

Sam woke to find himself tangled in a heavy wool blanket; it had rucked up about his shoulder and neck and was stiflingly hot. It also smelt of mothballs. He fought his way out of it, banging his knee on the coffee table in the process.

"Fuck!"

"Well, good morning, sunshine. Glad to see you made it through the night. Jesus, but you look like death warmed over. Fancy a cuppa?"

What Sam really wanted was codeine, but failing that he'd take some more paracetamol and tea. And a trip to the loo.

"Here," Gene said, as Sam got to his feet, his good leg taking his weight. He held out a cane. "It was my grandfather's." The wood was dark and glossy and the head well-worn silver. Sam accepted it and tried it out, taking a few experimental steps. It fit his hand well, and was definitely an improvement over clinging to the furniture.

He looked at Gene, meaning to thank him, but there was something about his expression that gave Sam pause and instead he said, "Be right back," and hobbled off to the bathroom.

"Write if you get work," Gene said.

After a heart-attack-inducing breakfast of fried potatoes, rashers, eggs, and toast with preserves, they headed into work. Ray whistled and Annie gasped when Sam walked in.

"You should be in hospital," she said, taking his face in her slim hands.

"They'll be time for playing naughty nurse later, WDC Cartwright," Gene said. "How's that robbery case coming?"

"We're sure it's the brother," she said, stepping away from Sam. "His alibi doesn't wash and he's got a load of gambling debts—"

"Then what are you doing faffing about here for? Go and get him!" Gene barked.

"Yes, Guv." Annie departed, Ray in tow.

By midmorning, Sam had found out that his professor was Dr Maxwell Ellis, Senior Lecturer in Classics and Ancient History at Manchester University, and they were in the Cortina heading over to ask the professor some questions before his afternoon class.

—

"Toffs. I hate 'em," Gene said as they made their way across campus. "Thinking they can just use whoever they like and toss them away like last night's johnny. So what do you think – lover's spat gone wrong?"

"So glad we're being circumspect today," Sam said, panting with the effort of keeping up. He'd mostly got the knack of using the cane, but couldn't match Gene's wide stride. "And I was afraid you wouldn't be able to be impartial. How silly of me."

"Yeah, yeah. Quit gobbing off."

They found Dr. Ellis' office, but the man himself was absent. Gene let them in with a kick and settled himself in the leather-bound chair behind the desk. The office was all mahogany and brass, bookcases lining three walls. Books with titles like _Antimachus of Colophon and the Position of Women in Greek Poetry_ and _The Roman Poets of the Augustan Age_ filled the crowded shelves. Just looking at them was enough to give Sam a headache.

He turned to find Gene rifling though the desk. "Finding anything of interest?" he asked, in a tone that was supposed to mean _we haven't got a warrant._

"Not really," Gene replied, flipping through a notepad. He had his crossed feet on the desk. "Half of it's in Greek, anyway. Why would anyone waste their time—" Sam shushed him. There was a voice in the corridor; he could make out the words as it drew closer.

"You mustn't confuse the poet and the narrator, Danny. The narrator may be ingenuous, but I can assure you the poet is not …" the voice trailed off as the speaker came into view. The man was in his mid-thirties, tall and with dark hair worn surprisingly long for a stuffed-shirt academic. He had an attaché case and a student in tow. He came up short as he saw them. "I beg your pardon, but what the hell are you doing in my office?"

"Are you a poof, Doctor?" Gene said, without moving from his spot behind the desk.

"I'm DI Tyler and this is DCI Hunt," Sam said, hurriedly. "We're conducting an investigation and would like to ask you a few questions."

Ellis turned to the young man at his elbow. "Daniel, we'll have to reschedule our discussion." The boy shot Sam and Gene a big-eyed look and darted away. Ellis entered the office and drew the door shut behind him.

"We didn't have enough gossip in this department, so thank you," he said icily. "Full points for style, gentlemen." He moved to his desk and might have sat down if Gene weren't already in his chair. Ellis settled for shoving Gene's feet off, sending a flurry of papers to the floor. "As to my, ah, inverted proclivities—"

"What's that mean?" Gene asked Sam.

"He's gay," Sam supplied, and Gene nodded like that's what he'd guessed.

"They were known to my superiors when they hired me, and my family knew before I left school, so if blackmail is your aim, I would invite you to fuck off." Ellis straightened to his full height, clearly determined to stand up to them. There was grey in his dark hair at the temples, but the slight gap between his front teeth gave him a boyish air.

Gene tsked. "Got a mouth on him. Shame it doesn't sound the same in such a posh accent."

"Dr Ellis, what was your relationship with Robert Carter?" Sam asked, ignoring Gene.

Ellis went very still, and this time his voice was very quiet when he asked, "Have you found Robbie?"

"We found what's left of him," Gene said.

"I'm afraid he's been killed," Sam said.

"Beaten to a bloody pulp, more like."

"Oh God." Ellis sank down into one of the chairs opposite his desk, and Sam took the other. Ellis was shaking, and he covered his face with his hand.

Gene heaved a heavy sigh and again addressed Sam. "He's not going to cry, is he?"

"I think he's sad, Guv. Sometimes people do that when they're sad."

"Real men don't. Though I guess he isn't a real man." Sam shot Gene a look, this one as ineffectual as all the rest. "So you were knobbing the boy—"

"No!" Ellis looked up at that, his voice indignant. "He was just a _child_."

"He was a rent-boy and on the needle to boot. Hardly Little Lord Fauntleroy."

"Dr Ellis," Sam interjected, trying to regain control of the interview.

"Please, call me Max."

"All right. I'm Sam." They shook hands, and Gene made an explosive noise of disgust and exasperation.

"What, now do we all trade blow jobs?!" he all but shouted.

"Are you offering?" Max said mildly, giving him the once-over.

"Max, we were told that Robbie was living with you," Sam said, hurriedly.

Max looked back to Sam. "Yes, he was, but it's not the sordid thing that you suppose." He paused and Sam gestured for him to go on. "I met Robbie about six months ago, at one of the clubs. I wasn't interested in his … services, but I was interested in _him_. He's a clever boy. He is … _was_ smarter than most of my students, and he enjoyed philosophy. Most of them care about their marks and nothing else, but he found it interesting. Of course, he was forced to work and sometimes he was too high or drunk to talk. But I always encouraged him to get out. He was better than all that.

"Finally I convinced him to leave. He gave up, or said he gave up, the drugs. He stayed at my flat, but I never touched him. Two days ago he went out for take-away and never came back. I'd hoped he'd just run away again." His voice broke and he didn't go on.

"Right," Gene said and stood. "You're coming with us, Doc. We'll ask you the rest of our questions there." He came around the desk and hauled Max to his feet by the collar of his jacket.

Sam followed after them, still struggling with his cane.

"Come on, Samantha!" Gene yelled back.

—

They left Max sitting in the storage room.

"Perhaps I should take the lead on this one," Sam suggested. "I can handle the interview."

"No."

"Could you at least think about it?"

"Fair enough," Gene said and paused to rub his chin. "Still no. But you can have sloppy seconds." He pushed past Sam into the storage room. Max already sat at the table, his hands folded neatly before him. Gene pulled out the chair and turned it around so he could straddle it. Sam held back, taking up a position against the wall, bracing himself up when his knee got tired.

"Now, Doctor," Gene started, in the tone that always meant trouble. "You were the last person to see Robbie alive." He jabbed a finger at Max. "And he was staying at your flat. That's not going to look good to a jury."

"I told you we weren't sleeping together."

"Is that why you killed him? The little trollop was holding out on you?"

"No!"

"Then why did you kill him?"

"I didn't kill him!" Max threw a look Sam's direction. "I want a solicitor."

"We're all out of them. How about a thumping instead?"

"I didn't kill Robbie," Max said, his face flushed and his eyes bright. "I cared for him; I would never hurt him."

"Yeah, I've heard that line from blokes standing over their wife's body with a bloody knife in hand." Gene braced both hands against the back of the table. "If you didn't kill him, where were you while he was getting the stuffing beat out of him?"

"I was working on my lessons."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

Max thought for a moment and then said in defeat, "No."

"That's what I thought." Gene stood, kicking the chair aside and then doing the same to the table. Max scrambled to his feet, tripping over his chair as he backed up. Gene seized the front of his shirt and propelled him backward until Max ran into the wall with an audible thud.

Sam winced in sympathy as Gene delivered a sharp punch to Max's gut. Max would have doubled over if Gene hadn't had such a firm grip on him.

"Listen here, you poncey, arse-mongering poofter. That boy came from the streets, but he came from _my_ streets and when posh knob-shiners think they can waltz in and do whatever the bloody hell they like to whomever they like, I take exception. I take very strong exception."

Gene let go and stepped back. He paused as he passed Sam on his way out.

"Go on and drink your lunch," Sam said, waving him on. "I'm going to finish up here."

Gene shrugged. "As you like it."

"Charming man, your Guv," Max said, when Gene was safely out of earshot.

"You should see him when he's in a bad mood," Sam said, and Max smiled wryly.

"I'm officially a suspect now, I take it?"

"Looks that way," Sam agreed. "Um. You do not have to say anything …" He trailed off as Max waved the rest away with a shooing gesture. "I'll see that you get a solicitor."

"And how would DCI Hunt feel about that?"

"None too keen. But some of us do care about the law, you know. Even he cares, in his way."

Max's brow knit and he studied Sam long enough to make him feel uncomfortable. "You're a very queer copper, Sam."

"I know." Sam took Max to the cells, requesting he get one to himself.

"All right," Phyllis agreed amiably. "But you owe me."

"I hope it's not too bad," Sam said, apologising for the state of the cell. It smelt strongly of disinfectant, which was an improvement over its more customary odour of piss and vomit. "I'm sure your solicitor will have you out in no time."

"I think you're probably not supposed to say things like that to your prisoners."

Sam smiled sheepishly. "Probably not." He closed the cell and gave Phyllis what he hoped was a rakish smile. Then, on a hunch, he began pulling missing persons files: anyone between the ages of twelve and eighteen. There had been fifteen since the start of 1974 alone. Thirty in '73, twenty-one in '72, and fifteen in '71. Before that there were only a handful each year until he ran out of records. Most had been marked as runaways and given little or no priority. Most came from working-class families.

"Have you been mucking about in the records room all afternoon?"

Sam didn't look up from the map he was sticking full of pushpins. The pins' colours indicated the year the teens had been reported missing.

"Did you know Manchester's seen a sixty percent increase in missing persons under the age of eighteen in the last three years?"

"Fascinating. Why don't you tell me all about it over tucker?"

"Um. Okay," Sam said distractedly, studying the scatter of pins across the map, hoping a pattern would suddenly appear.

"You make a sparkling conversationalist. Get your cane." When Sam didn't move fast enough, Gene grabbed it for him and then swung it rather forcefully into Sam's stomach. Sam oofed and followed after Gene.

They went out for curry, not at Sam's favourite place but at one of Gene's choosing. They got a table in the back. The lighting was a little darker than Sam preferred.

"Did you get anything more out of Ellis?" Gene asked, through an overly large mouthful.

"I don't think he did it," Sam said.

"Not what I asked, sweetheart, but thanks – your opinion means so much to me."

"His grief seems genuine."

"I'm sure it is; that was a nice bit of spare he was getting. I wonder if he got a discount, too."

Sam snorted derisively. "Maxwell Ellis doesn't have to pay for it, that I can promise you."

"Jealous, are you?" Gene goaded, sucking a bit of curry off his thumb. Not in a lascivious way – in a disgusting pig sort of way.

"He's not my type, but thanks for asking." Sam tore a piece of naan off viciously. "You're letting your prejudices blind you. Not for the first time. I think Max cared for Robbie and was helping him get out. It was what Robbie was getting out of that killed him. And whatever it was is a lot bigger than both of them. I think it's got something to do with all these kids going missing."

"You've see too many flicks, my paranoid little Pollyanna." Gene tipped his glass and nearly drained it. "These kids are fuck-ups, not victims. They get into drugs and they run off. There's nothing anybody could have done. They don't give a kipper's dick about their families or the people the hurt. They're trash. S'all there is to it."

"Guv…" Sam started and then found he didn't know how to continue.

"Don't Guv me, Tyler. Spit it out. I can see the wheels turning in that devious little brain of yours."

Sam chased a few lentils around his plate with a bit of bread. "What happened to your brother … that wasn't your fault."

"'Course it wasn't. Why the hell would I blame myself for something my fool of a brother did twenty years ago?"

Sam didn't look up from his plate, but he could feel Gene's glare on the top of his head. "I don't know. Normal people might be reminded of what was presumably a painful time for them. They might even let their emotions affect their judgement."

"Good thing I am _not_ a normal person. And I don't have any of those ruddy emotions," Gene said, hotly. He made _normal person_ sound like an insult.

"Of course not."

"Kindly keep your beak out of my business. You've been spending too much time with WDC Cartwright."

"Sorry, Guv."

"I should finish what those blaggers started. No wonder they wanted to do you in. It's a miracle they got to you before I did."

"Those men attacked me because they thought I was gay—"

"Hard to blame them."

"—Has there been a rise in gay-bashings recently?" Sam asked, managing to keep from rolling his eyes at the Guv's threats.

"It is so irritating to me that I know exactly what you mean. _Gay-bashings._" Gene shook his head, apparently in self-pity. "No, DI Fairypants, there haven't. If anything I'd say things have been quieter. The batty-boys have been taking care of things themselves. Some of those muscle Marys can give it as well as they take it."

"Nice," Sam said. "But you don't think it's odd—"

"What's the time?"

Sam checked his wristwatch. "Ah, half-seven."

"Bugger, we're late." He threw his napkin on the table and stood. "Have you got any bread on you?"

"About eight quid, why?"

"Don't ask so many questions."

Sam got to his feet with a little effort – the swelling had gone down in his knee considerably but it was still touchy – and wondered why he seemed fated to spend the rest of his life trying to keep up with Gene Hunt.

Gene drove even faster than usual, taking corners on two wheels. When Sam grabbed the dashboard to steady himself, Gene told him to let go and quit being such a ponce.

"Slow down. How is fear of dying in a fiery wreck make me a ponce?"

"Can't slow down; this is urgent and we're late as it is." Gene took his eyes off the road to glare at Sam for perilously long moments. "This is important, Sam. Can I trust you?"

"Please watch the road. And yes, you can trust me."

"Just follow my lead and play it cool. Don't use my name. You can refer to me as Mr Eastwood."

"Mr _Clint_ Eastwood, by any chance?" Sam said, still pushing himself back into the seat, like you did on a roller-coaster when you weren't entirely sure that the restraints would hold.

"And don't tell anyone about this. This is strictly hush-hush." The car careened into an empty car park and Gene brought it to an abrupt stop. They were outside the Morris-Franklin warehouse, the entire building dark.

"Sure thing, _pardner_," Sam said, making a gun of his index finger and thumb and making a show of cocking it. "I've got your back whatever goes down at the old corral."

"That accent is terrible," Gene told him.

"Let's hear yours then," Sam said, just a touch sulkily. But Gene wasn't listening as he checked to make sure no one was watching – no one was; the street was quiet and empty – and slipping through the unlocked back door.

Gene made his way down the long, narrow corridor without hesitating, but his confidence just added to Sam's nervousness, as though there were some kind of law of conservation. He shoved open heavy double doors and they were in the warehouse itself, their footsteps echoing across the floor. The huge shelves of boxes disappeared up into the black, towering above them. They reached the end of one of the rows, and weak light came into view.

Two men sat at a table, backlit by the lamp they'd set up. They looked up as Gene and Sam approached.

"I do the talking. You just shut your gob and look pretty."

"Glad you came, Mr Eastwood," the first man said. Sam couldn't get a good look at him, but the impression he got was of muscle and a bad attitude.

"Where's Mr Wayne?" the second asked. He had a high, wheedling voice that set Sam's teeth on edge.

"He couldn't make it tonight," Gene said. "But I brought a replacement." Sam stepped forward, ready to introduce himself as Mr Redford. He thought he had a very Redfordesque quality, but Gene didn't give him the chance. "This is Gladys. Gladys, this is Mr Heston and Mr Newman." They both nodded and Gene gestured for him to take a seat at the table.

Mr Newman produced a deck of cards and began to shuffle. "The game is five-card draw. 50p minimum bet."

"Poker?" Sam started, and was quickly silenced by a sharp kick delivered under the table.

"You sure he won't run to the coppers?" Mr Heston asked.

"I'm sure," Gene replied and shot Sam a wide smile. "You can put your faith in Gladys."

Mr Newman dealt, and Sam considered his hand. He'd played the occasional game back when he'd first joined the force, but he'd quit when he'd been promoted.

The hand went to Mr Heston, but it was enough to refresh Sam's memory and he grew a little more confident. He had shit cards the next hand, but the one after he won, calling Mr Heston's bluff and taking the five-quid pot. A high-roller he was not, but it still felt rather good.

They played a few more hands, Sam either folding early or winning the hand.

"Lady Luck must be smiling on you," grumbled Mr Newman.

"The birds all love Gladys; it's a shame he doesn't love them back," Gene said and raised Sam two quid.

"Just waiting for the right bird," Sam said, smiling. "And I fold."

"You hear about the trouble over near Canal Street?" Gene said, studying his cards with intensity.

Mr Newman laughed and shook his head. "Two blokes beaten near to death. Looks like there might be more trouble coming. One of the club owners is right unhappy. Man's as gay as a goose, but a cold-hearted cunt all the same. Says the coppers don't do enough to keep the streets safe."

"Is that so?" Gene said mildly. "What's he want? The good men of Manchester's police force to tuck him in at night?"

"He probably does," Heston said. "Fucking fairy."

"Yeah, Perry the Fairy."

Sam nearly dropped his cards. "I haven't heard of him"

"Well, you wouldn't, Gladys, now would you? Not unless you were frequenting the queer clubs. Perry owns two and is looking to expand his operations. You going to call or not?"

Sam hurried to push his coins into the centre of the table. "So what's Perry going to do about the beatings?"

Newman shrugged. "Who knows. And when he does move, we probably won't know it's him what's done it. Keeps it low-profile, like."

"Do you ladies want to talk or play?" Gene said. Sam tried to give him a meaningful look, but if Gene got it, he didn't react.

"You want to play, so play," Heston replied.

They played the next few hands in silence, and the next time Sam tried to bring up Perry, Gene kicked him again.

When the game finally ended and Gene collected his substantial winnings, Sam had lost all his money, his shins were sore, and his mood foul. He waited until they'd reached the car park to say, "Well, I really hope that was worth it."

"I think it was." Gene was considerably more cheerful and he clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Sammy, you'll win it back next week."

"Next week? How long has this been going on?"

"Mr Wayne couldn't make it because he's currently looking at twenty years for armed robbery. So we'll need another person. "

"Can't you get another one of your low-life friends?"

Gene grabbed the back of Sam's neck and pulled him in so he could say, "Do you know how many blaggers I've nicked with leads I got from nights like this? So don't lecture me, you jumped-up twat."

"But you wouldn't let me follow the Perry lead. When I was interviewing prostitutes for the Carter case, that name came up."

"It wouldn't do to seem too interested. If they know you want to know, the price gets to be very dear indeed. We can look into Perry ourselves. If he's as big as they say, he should be on our radar anyway."

Sam was ready to go home, but Gene stopped by a chips shop over his protest.

"I'm broke," Sam said with an accompanying glare.

"My treat," Gene said, returning shortly with a couple of chips, greasy and hot and drenched in vinegar. They sat in the car and ate and when Gene passed the flask over, Sam took it. Sam ate his chips in silence, his temper abating with his hunger. "So you think Perry the Fairy has something to do with this?" Gene asked finally, wiping a hand down his trousers.

Sam shrugged. "Don't know. It just seems odd that I would hear his name twice in the same week when I'd never heard of him before. Maybe I am paranoid."

"What's the saying? Twice is a coincidence, three times is a conspiracy."

"I thought you were going to tell me that just because I was paranoid didn't mean they weren't out to get me." Sam licked the salt from his fingers and felt suddenly self-conscious as he caught Gene watching him.

"That too."

—

Max looked up as the door of his cell swung open. He had shadows under his eyes, but looked otherwise unharmed from his stay.

"Sam," he said and his voice broke.

Sam entered the cell and took a seat next to Max. He gingerly placed a hand on Max's back. "There, there." That just seemed to make it worse, and Max took a shuddering breath.

"I didn't kill him, Sam. You've got to believe me."

"I believe you," Sam said. It was so strange to touch someone without violence. He tried a circular stroke, feeling Max's heartbeat under his hand. "We'll figure it out, Max. We will."

"He only stepped out for take-away. I never should have let him go – I knew he had rough contacts, that he'd left it behind too easily." Max scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, but he wasn't crying. "More the fool I, to think they would just let him go. There is always a price …"

"You can't blame yourself." And how many times had he told grieving loved ones that? "Max, I need you to think back – did Robbie ever mention someone named Perry?"

Max thought about it, his brow knit in concentration. "Perry owned the club where we met. He's got an unsavoury reputation, but there aren't that many places that cater to my kind. You think he did it?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. I'll check by after lunch, all right? If the Guv still hasn't cut you loose."

Max sighed wearily. "I'll pencil you into my diary, then."

"If your schedule allows." He turned to leave, but Max stopped him.

"Wait, there's something else and I've only now remembered. That last time Robbie came to my flat – he had a little book with him. He kept it very close, but I looked at it once," Max glanced down, shamefaced. "I thought it was his appointment book or journal and I was … curious. But it wasn't that at all. It wasn't even his handwriting. It was some kind of ledger, but I really couldn't make heads or tails of it. I thought it was strange at the time, but not particularly alarming."

"This book, is it still at your flat?"

"Yes, I believe so," Max said, raking a hand through his hair. "Robbie kept it in his rucksack. I couldn't bear to touch his things after he disappeared. Do you think it had something to do with his … with all this?"

"Perhaps," Sam said and tried for a reassuring smile.

Gene was loitering in the hallway as Sam closed Max's cell again.

"Let's go," was all he said.

—

Max's flat was neat and well decorated, stereotypically so. He'd bucked the orange-and-brown palette of this decade and used shades of cream and green.

"Christ, it's like living in a Harrods advert," Gene said as they stepped over the threshold. Sam was already looking for the rucksack, but a first pass through the flat didn't reveal anything. "Maybe he was just winding us up," Gene suggested, as Sam began a more thorough investigation.

"Well, presumably he knows that you'd pound him to jam in short order and as he is extremely intelligent and doesn't seem like a masochist, I doubt that he'd do something so suicidally stupid."

Gene started through the drawers of the desk while Sam checked under the bed. "Oi!"

Sam came limping back out. He'd left the cane behind, but his knee was still quite tender. Gene held something aloft, a dark handle. With a practised flick of his wrist, the knife snapped out. A switchblade.

"Maybe it's a family heir—"

"What, with blood still dried on it?"

Sam looked at the blade more closely without taking it from Gene – no point in further mucking up the prints. Telltale flecks of brown were still in the groove down the knife and in the recesses of the screws on the handle.

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Funny old world, innit?" Gene said philosophically.

"Guv, think about it – why would he tell us to search his flat if he knew he'd just happened to leave a _murder weapon_ lying about? Why would he keep the weapon in the first place?"

Gene got that stony inward look that meant he was processing. "You're right."

"It just doesn't make any – what?"

"I'm not saying it again." He tucked the knife in his pocket. "Max said Robbie worked for Perry?" Sam nodded. "That's three times Perry's come up. It was a coincidence before, but now …"

"But now it's a conspiracy."

—

"Guv, I've finished that report you wanted on Oliver Perry," Annie said when they returned to the station. She offered him a thick file, but he glared at it and refused to take it.

"How about if you just give us the highlights, love? Reading all that print gives me a headache."

"All right," she said, opening the file. "Oliver Francis Perry. Born and schooled in London. Left home when he was sixteen, arrested for petty theft and assault and spent some time in the system. Since he left it at eighteen, he's been a person of interest in a variety of crimes, but never been formally charged."

"Pick it up, WDC Cartwright. I don't need his memoirs."

"Um, he moved to Manchester in 1970 and opened a club near Canal Street called the Bella Union, which caters to a mostly gay clientèle. The club has all the required licences and other than a few broken windows, hasn't had any trouble." She shrugged. "No one I talked to had anything bad to say about him. He's a fine businessman and an asset to the community."

Gene snorted. "If he's an asset to the community than I'm a bloody saint."

"I got the feeling they were all scared of him," Annie said. "Even after I told them anything they said was confidential. One did tell me that you could get whatever you wanted at the club if you knew how to ask. I took that to mean drugs and prostitutes."

"No, I'm sure he meant flowers and bonbons," Gene snapped. "Sam, what was that you were saying about those missing kids?"

"They all started going missing in 1970."

"About the same time Mr Perry came to town."

"Gay youth are an especially vulnerable population," Sam said. "They run away or get kicked out by their families and then walk right into people like Perry's waiting arms. He probably offered them safety and a place to sleep. And I'd imagine the acceptance would be especially alluring."

"And then he turns around and starts peddling their arses like a travelling salesman."

"But Robbie got out; he had to be made an example of," Annie suggested.

"And there's the book Robbie nicked. Someone wanted it back and wants Ellis to go down enough to fit him up. For once it weren't me." He leaned against Sam's desk, crossing his arms.

"This is all circumstantial." Sam rubbed his face wearily. "We won't be able to get a warrant with that. We have nothing tying Perry to Robbie's murder or the other missing kids. And I'm guessing the one thing that could link them was that book."

"So we don't get him for Robbie's murder first. You sure his licences are all in order?" Gene asked, glancing at Annie.

"Yeah, I went over them twice."

"S' a shame. We'll have to pose as customers. Soliciting's enough to bring him in, and from there we'll get a warrant."

"You want to entrap him," Sam said.

"Do you object?" Gene asked, lip curled.

"Well … no. But who's going to pose as the john?" Sam said and suddenly felt every pair of eyes in the room on him.

"Who 'ere thinks DI Tyler makes a brilliant fairy?" Gene called out, and every hand in the room went up.

"Et tu, Annie?" Sam said, shooting her a betrayed look.

"It's your hygiene," she said, apologetically. "Very few men have fingernails so tidy."

"There you have it," Gene said, satisfied. "You'll get Perry to offer you the goods and arrest him. Operation Flaming Copper goes down tonight."

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Gene didn't give him the chance. "You wanted to catch Robbie's murderers."

"Yes, but—"

"You were the one what pushed me on this case, Tyler."

"I know, but—"

"So we're going after them – the only thing I should be hearing from you is 'thank you, Guv' and 'I really appreciate this opportunity, Guv' and 'I admire your unswerving commitment to justice, Guv.'"

Sam took a deep breath and then nodded. "Thank you, Guv."

"You're welcome," Gene said. "Sweetheart."

—

"You want to what?" Max said, as they dragged him out of his cell and into the Guv's office.

"Sammy here's going to pose as one of your lot and get Perry to offer him the goods. Once the tosser's done that, we drag him in and search his place. If he's got the book – which my gut tells me he does – it'll be enough to convince any jury in the world he's guilty as sin."

Max blinked, trying to follow the plan with some effort. "You want to entrap him?"

"S' how they got Al Capone," Chris offered.

"… On a solicitation charge?" Max said doubtfully.

"Tax evasion, actually," Sam said. "But the idea's the same. If he's charged with solicitation we can get the warrants needed to search his club and flat."

"And since warrants seem to be _de rigueur_ these days, we've got to have one," Gene said, crossing his arms. "Normally I wouldn't bother with them and save my DI the fuss of prancing about like a poofter."

"No offence," Sam added with a wince.

Max was unfazed by Gene's language and instead focused on Sam. "Do you really think this will work?"

"I think it has a fair chance, yeah."

"Then what do you need from me?" Max asked. "I'll do whatever I can."

"We appreciate your co-operation, princess. You've been to this club before. Would you recognise Perry if you saw him?" Gene perched on the edge of his desk, his arms crossed.

"I've only seen him once or twice, but I think so," Max said.

"Good," Gene said, satisfied. "You're accustomed to moving amongst them. You see that DI Tyler makes it in, help him get past whatever he needs to get past, and point out Perry."

"There's really not any code or secret handshake or anything," Max said. "Any of you could just walk in off the street and no one would bat an eye. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised—"

"Thanks so much for your help with this, Max," Sam said before Gene or Ray could feel the need to re-exert their manhood. "But it will be risky. Oliver Perry is a dangerous man; you don't have to do this."

"I want Robbie to have justice. And despite a few teenage fantasies, I have no interest in going to prison," Max said, no trace of doubt in his voice.

—

Annie oversaw Sam's costuming.

"You can wear those tan trousers – you know, the ones that are quite snug."

"They're not that snug," Sam said, offended.

"I'm sorry, Boss, but they leave precious little to the imagination." She wasn't quite smiling, but her eyes were sparkling.

Sam felt his face and the back of his neck heat. "I don't have a full-length mirror. I didn't realise how tight the fit was."

"No, no. I quite like them." She went through his wardrobe, considering and then rejecting all his shirts. "Haven't you got something a little brighter?"

"I hope not."

"S'all right," Annie said and rummaged through her handbag, producing a purple shirt with lilac pinstripes. "I've brought something. Try it on." She threw the shirt to him and he held it up, horrified.

"What is this?"

"It's one of my ex's. He was quite a snappy dresser. And purple suits you. Matches your bruises, too," she said as he reluctantly stripped out of his sensible brown shirt and slipped into the purple … thing.

"I think it's missing a button." He hooked a finger into the deep V of the neckline.

"No, it's supposed to fit like that. You look quite well in it, actually. If you don't mind me saying." Annie set her hands on her hips as she considered him.

"I want to look gay but, you know, not like a stereotype." He inspected his image in ten-inch sections in the mirror above the sink. "Rupert Everett, not Elton John, all right?"

"You look like my ex, actually. He was cute. He was also gay. I seem to have a type." There was a strange note in her voice and something about it made him look up. She was watching him wistfully, her smile crooked and her eyes sad.

"Annie …" he started, unsure what to say. They had gone on three official dates, which had been fine, but only fine. After the last he hadn't called and neither had she. "It's just—"

"You can wear those boots with the Cuban heels," she interrupted, shaking herself a little. "And I've brought me make-up to cover that eye."

Sam frowned. "Just to cover, right? No shadow or lipstick."

Annie smiled, more genuine this time. "It would be very Ziggy Stardust."

—

The club was unassuming from the street, with none of the neon that marked straight dance clubs. It had a staid wood facade, the heavy door all brass and mahogany. The only thing to indicate it was anything more than a regular pub was the heavyset bouncer standing in the doorway.

"This it?" Gene said, double-checking with Max. He peered around the corner; the police van and the back-up team were hidden away in a side alley, close by but out of sight. "Doesn't seem poofy enough."

"Yes, I'm sure," Max said. They'd allowed him to go home to change and he was freshly showered and shaved, his black trousers and white shirt positively subdued next to Sam's get-up. "I'm sorry if it doesn't live up to your expectations."

"Piss off," Gene said, genially enough. "Got your radio?"

"Yes," Sam said. It was hidden – if you could use the word – in his jacket pocket, heavy and pulling it down on one side. Gene had suggested he stash it down the front of his trousers.

"You give the word, we come in, guns blazing, and start arresting every brown-hatter we lay our hands on." Gene thumped Sam on the back. "All you need is to get Perry to make you an offer. Or just talk to him and you say he made you an offer later."

"Right," Sam said and tried to swallow to wet his throat. "Are you ready?"

Max shrugged. "As much as I'll ever be ready, I suppose."

And with that, Operation Flaming Copper commenced. It was a relief to follow Max's lead as they approached the club. This assignment had Sam far more unsettled than he'd ever admit, and Max seemed comfortingly sure of himself as he nodded to the bouncer and whisked them both inside. Whether it was because he didn't fully understand the risk he was taking or because he was much braver than Sam had given him credit for, Sam didn't know.

They were immediately confronted with a narrow, twisting staircase that led them abruptly downwards. How could drunks navigate it, Sam wondered; he had to cling to the railing. He'd returned the cane to Gene; his knee still twinged, but it was the size it was supposed to be and a cane would be more trouble than it was worth on a dance floor.

Flyers and posters papered the walls, advertising bands and concerts. Sam could feel the music more than hear it, a bone-rattling bass line he felt under his sternum.

They emerged onto a packed dance floor, so dark that Sam could only get the impression of writhing bodies, flashes coming to him with the strobe lights. He was held transfixed until Max's light touch on his elbow guided him through the crowd. They found one of the few tables pressed against the windowless walls. Sam was already sweating; so many bodies so close together made the heat oppressive.

"Do you see him?" Sam asked.

"What?!" Max shouted back over the music.

"Do! You! See! Him?!" Sam tried again.

Max glanced around the room and shrugged. "Not yet," he mouthed. He stood and motioned for Sam to stay where he was before slipping back through the crowd. Sam watched the dancers, feeling like a voyeur, but unable to stop himself. Men danced with men, not the hokey dance steps so popular with this decade – no Hustle, no Night Fever, no Bus Stop – but two people completely focused on each other, hips spooned together, pulling each other close, moving in time to the music. When Max returned a few minutes later with drinks, Sam was feeling thirsty indeed. Whatever Max had ordered, it was slightly sweet and extremely alcoholic, which Sam noticed only after he'd downed half his glass and his head spun slightly.

Max took his drink from his hand and set it on the table, so he could pull Sam to his feet and onto the dance floor. Sam didn't resist until Max stopped and turned to him, a hand going to his waist, and Sam realised they were really going to dance, not survey the room or something.

Sam jerked away, but Max was insistent. "Come on, Sam. It's just a dance – your cover!"

Sam wasn't convinced, but it would be a struggle to get back to the table through the crowd. Besides, he had a better vantage point here. He'd left his coat back at the table, he realised as Max's hand found the small of his back, an extra point of heat.

"Like dancing with a haddock," Max said, leaning in close to shout it in Sam's ear. "Surely you could at least try to look like you're enjoying it."

That goaded Sam into swaying a bit, half pushed by Max's hands on his waist. He didn't have anything to do with his hands, and he tried resting them on Max's shoulders. That was an improvement. Max's body seemed to mould to his, and Sam let himself relax into it, his knee slipping between Max's as they moved together. He felt rather than heard Max laugh and grin against his ear.

"You're still looking out for Perry?" Sam reminded him, a prickling of guilt, and something else entirely, settling in his stomach.

"He should arrive any minute," Max said and ran a hand over the curve of Sam's arse.

Someone grabbed Sam's shoulder and pulled hard enough to spin him around. He found himself staring up at Gene fucking Hunt, large as life and angry as hell. Sam staggered and backed into another dancer before he recovered.

"What—" Max began, but Gene cut him off.

"Fuck off," Gene snapped. "I'm cutting in, sweetheart." Max exchanged a quick look with Sam, who could manage no reply beyond a dumb look, and then Sam was too busy being seized and forced backwards.

"Ow, my toe!" Sam said.

"Shut up and take it," Gene said. He settled one hand on Sam's waist and took the other in his own, as though they were going to start waltzing. Being led by Gene was a lot like being beaten by him, all shoving and body-slamming.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam said, trying to pull his hand free, but Gene had a good hold on him and even if Sam would have been able to get free, it would have taken more of a struggle than he cared to engage in whilst attempting to remain inconspicuous.

"I'm cutting a rug, what does it look like?" Gene said and then leaned in very close so he could say directly into Sam's ear, "I'm pulling you out of this assignment."

"_What?_"

"Someone just called in a tip about Perry. I'm not risking more on this cunty bastard than I have to."

"And that doesn't strike you as suspicious?" They'd stopped swaying and were getting in the way of the other dancers. Sam brought his hand up to Gene's shoulder to try to get him moving again, knowing that if anyone were watching this little exchange it would look highly suspect. "That won't be enough to get a warrant."

"So we don't get one. Won't be the first time I got what I needed without a bloody piece of paper giving me the say-so!"

"No!" Sam cried, confident the music would cover his words. "Things are changing, Gene. I am not going to watch him walk on a technicality. Besides, I'm already here. I do so hate getting dressed up for nothing."

Gene twisted Sam's hand up behind his back, sending a sharp pain through his shoulder and still-healing ribs. The move also brought them into even closer physical proximity, his chest pressed to Sam's, his hips checking Sam's as Sam came up onto his toes to relieve the pressure. "Listen here, you little twat, I don't care how much time it took to put your face on or how much you like letting fairies feel you up. When I say get out, you get."

About mid-way through this speech, Sam had got distracted by a prickly feeling on the back of his neck. He looked past Gene, searching through the crowd, and found a youth watching him. Not with idle or even speculative curiosity, but with cold interest.

"We're being watched – no, don't look!" Sam caught Gene's face with his hand to keep him from craning around and then – the gesture triggering some reflex, completely bypassing the part of his brain that sorted the good ideas from the bad and the bad from the suicidal – he kissed Gene Hunt right on the mouth. "Don't hit me," he said as he broke the kiss. "I was maintaining our cover."

The kiss had caught Gene badly off guard, enough so that Sam could free his arm and bring it up and around Gene's neck, his fingers catching in his hair and then tightening sharply.

"I'm not going to let your homophobia or self-loathing or whatever the hell _this_ is stop me from bringing Perry in. So either help, or _you_ get out," Sam whispered, his lips against Gene's ear, with a vicious tug on his hair.

Gene's reply was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. They stepped apart to find Max. Sam wanted to apologise for leaving him alone, for his unprofessionalism, for just about everything, but Max's expression was all business.

"There," he said, and nodded to indicate the man on the far side of the room. "That's Oliver Perry."

Oliver Perry was a slight, unassuming man in a black trench coat. The two men flanking him were considerably more imposing, and from the way they watched the room and the deference they showed Perry, Sam guessed they were bodyguards. The men made their way around the edge of the room, heading for another door on the opposite side.

"Now or never," Sam said. He didn't wait to see what Gene would do, but started fighting his way through the crowd on a path to intercept Perry. Gene caught up to him just before he caught up to Perry, slinging an arm around Sam's neck. Sam thought Gene meant to stop him, but he kept them moving forward, pulling Sam in close.

"Mr Perry!" Gene called out, the drunken slur to his voice sounding genuine. The bodyguards' hands slipped into their jackets, but a motion from Perry stopped them. He smiled at Gene, his eyes cold and appraising.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Mr …?" he said, not seeming to raise his voice, though Sam had no trouble hearing him over the music.

"Mr Eastwood, let's call me," Gene said and winked. "This is my very good friend, Gladys." He indicated Sam with a squeeze. "And you see, the thing is, Mr Perry, rumour has it that you are the bloke to talk to if one is looking for a little company. And I am in the market for a little company."

"Gladys looks like very good company to me," Perry observed mildly.

"He can be, but he prefers to watch." Gene's leer was practised, and Sam had to force himself not to react as Gene slid a possessive hand down his side to land on his hip. "A little companionship is worth gold and silver, if you'd like to suggest a price." Gene fumbled for his wallet.

"Why don't we step into my office to discuss business?" Perry suggested with another joyless smile.

Sam began to have second thoughts when the bodyguards took up positions behind them as Perry led the way through the back door, and escape became distinctly more difficult. They found themselves facing another staircase, this one wider and well lit. They walked up several floors, the music growing faint, though Sam could still feel it through the soles of his feet.

They emerged into a hallway and Perry said, "Right through here, gentlemen," as he opened the door and indicated they should enter first. In retrospect, that was the only warning they got, but Sam didn't get a chance to identify the thrill of fear that ran through him.

The room wasn't an office, but some kind of large supply cupboard, with shelves of paper towels and bottles of toilet cleaner. Sam turned in confusion and registered the butt of a pistol being swung at his head just before blackness fell.

—

Sam woke slowly, the various pains in his body registering themselves one by one according to severity. His headache was the worst, a vision-blurring throb, his ribs were aching again, and his bad knee screamed at him, gone cramped and bloodless from holding the same position for a prolonged period.

"So you're not a vegetable then."

"Six," Sam said, his tongue thick and dry. He managed to open first one eye and then the other and Gene swam into view, blood trickled from a cut along his hairline.

"Perhaps I spoke too soon." They were in the storage cupboard, their hands tied and their ankles bound. Gene was slouched against the back wall.

"I have a concussion. And if my accounting is correct, that makes six concussions in the past two and a half years." Sam rolled to a seated position, pins and needles running through his limbs. He worked his way over to Gene, panting by the time he got there.

"What are the odds your accounting's correct if you've had six concussions?" Gene asked philosophically.

"They've done studies, you know. On rugby players who've had numerous concussions. Or maybe it was American football players. That's not the point. The point," he screwed up his eyes in the effort of remembering his point, "is. The point is that it's not good. I may have permanent damage."

"You'll definitely have permanent damage by the time I'm done with you," Gene promised. "Pray Perry's goons finish you off before I lay my hands on you, Sam Tyler. Let that be a lesson to me: whatever Sam Tyler says, do the opposite."

Sam started to argue, considered their predicament, and shut up. "Oh!" he said suddenly, a flash of insight making it through the fog of his headache. "The boy who was watching us – I recognised him from interviewing the prostitutes, but I only just now put it together. That's how Perry knew we were coppers."

"I don't give a toss why they knew we were coppers. One would only have to glance at me to realise I'm not bent. The whole thing was a setup from start to finish. The question is: why didn't they kill us?"

"I don't know," Sam said. "My knee hurts." He shifted, trying to find a position that didn't leave any part of his body pinched and aching.

"Shut up about your sodding knee. It's the least of your problems. Chances are they're just waiting to move us and kill us somewhere more convenient. We'll be floating face-down in the canal tomorrow morning."

Sam wormed his way a bit closer, and let his head rest on Gene's shoulder. He expected to be shaken off, but Gene was still. Sam closed his eyes.

"Don't go to sleep. You've a concussion."

"Doesn't matter," Sam murmured. Gene smelled like sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and Hai Karate. It was not altogether unpleasant.

"It matters to _me_. You do not get to take the easy way out of this, Tyler." Gene slapped him lightly on the cheek, his bound hands making the gesture clumsy and mostly ineffective.

"I'm sorry, Guv," Sam said, and he could hear the thickness in his voice. He was so very tired; even the pain didn't seem so bad right now. His hands and feet had grown cold with the lack of circulation and the rest of him seemed to be following. He shivered a little; Gene was warm under his cheek and that was nice. He really hoped that he died of a brain haemorrhage before they could take him out back and shoot him. As exits went, this really wasn't so bad.

"Don't you apologise to me, you divvy little bastard. Now, open your eyes! That's an order!" The face-patting became more insistent, and Sam was vaguely aware of being shaken.

"Come on, Sam. Come on, Sammy-boy."

It was a great bother, but he managed to open his eyes. Gene had Sam's face in his hands, his grip uncomfortably tight. Sam grunted a protest and tried to pull away but Gene wouldn't let him go. "There we are." Gene actually sounded relieved. "Sams, Sammers, Sammy-boy."

"_Please_," Sam said, carefully enunciating. "Stop saying my name."

"Always full of opinions, that's you." Gene finally released him. "Now, think of an escape plan."

"All right," Sam said. "You distract him, then I'll tackle him."

"Right. Never mind. You shut up; I'll think of a plan."

They both sat up straighter as they heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. Perry's goons entered; one already had his gun drawn. Perry followed them, standing in the doorway.

"Welcome to the party, boys," Gene said heartily. "Into bondage are you?" He indicated his bound hands. "I'm not into the kinky stuff meself."

"Oh, I doubt that. The coppers always have the most outlandish tastes. More than one sees those tastes indulged here. Bad customers, though. Always expect to get theirs for free." Perry tsked.

One of his henchmen cut the rope at Sam's ankles and pulled him to his feet. Sam wobbled a bit; he was dizzy and his feet burned as the blood returned. He leaned against the shelves, upsetting a bottle of soap. Gene's bonds were cut as well; he seemed considerably more sure on his feet.

"Get on," the bigger goon said, jabbing Gene with the muzzle of his gun. He waved Sam on, too, and Sam, seeing no other option, obeyed. They were herded out into the hallway and taken in the opposite direction from where they'd come in.

"You do know who I am," Gene said, supremely confident.

"DCI Gene Hunt and DI Sam Tyler," Perry replied. "Of the CID."

"So you know that you'll be put away for the rest of your sorry life with some of the most vicious rapists and murders if you're so fucking daft as to kill us."

"No, I don't think so," Perry said, unruffled. Then, to his henchmen, "Take them out back."

The first henchman nodded and took Gene's elbow, the gun in the small of his back. The second goon gave Sam the same treatment, jarring his sore shoulder. They'd almost reached the end of the long hallway when a crashing reverberated down it. Sam twisted around to see the door at the other end swinging open, having bounced off the wall.

Annie, followed quickly by Chris and Ray, spilled into the hallway. They backed up quickly as the goons started firing, bullets ricocheting off the walls. Sam was hustled along down yet another staircase and out into the back alley.

"Hold them," Perry said and then took off running, leaving the bodyguards, Sam, and Gene staring after him.

"What a rat," Gene said.

The bodyguards exchanged a look with each other, and the one holding Sam levelled the gun at his head.

The exit swung open.

"You're surrounded by—" Ray's voice called out, only to be silenced as the heavy door swung back closed again.

The bodyguard who'd been about to execute him grabbed Sam instead, pulling him into a headlock, the gun pressed to his temple. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Gene getting the same treatment.

"By armed bastards!" Ray finished, this time propping the door open a few inches, enough to wave his own gun about a bit. The guard holding Gene took a shot at the door. The bullet threw off sparks as it hit the heavy steel.

"Traditionally in a hostage situation," Sam said, a note of hysteria in his voice, "you would start making demands right about now."

"Shut up," the guard replied, then shouted back to Ray, "If you so much as set one foot out that door, I'll blow 'is brains out."

"Come on, let's get out of 'ere," the other goon said, and they hauled Sam and Gene down the alley. Sam's bad knee gave out and he stumbled and went to one knee. "Get up." Sam didn't need to be told, but his limbs were being difficult. "I said, 'Get up'!"

"He's got a bum knee," Sam heard Gene say. "And you've rather recently scrambled his brains. Come on, Sammy, get up."

Sam heaved, and with the help of the thug's grip on his shirt, he made it up to his feet. Dirty water had soaked the leg of his trousers, the fabric clinging to his skin.

As they reached the end of the alley, the door swung open again and Sam didn't have to look to know Ray and the others were following.

One of the goons – Sam wasn't sure which – fired a couple of hap-hazard shots over his shoulder. They rounded the corner; Sam was pushed around it first, closely followed by his guard. As he came round the brick of the building, he saw Max and then time slowed to a crawl. Hypersensitivity kicked his senses up, and in less than a heartbeat he became aware of rubbish lining the gutter, the sound of Gene's heavy breathing behind him, the smell of urine and damp pavement, the rust on the crowbar Max had hoisted over his head. That last detail came to the forefront in the order of importance.

Max side-stepped Sam, swinging the crowbar around to connect with the first goon's temple. The thug holding Gene brought his gun to bear on Max, getting off several shots before Gene slammed him into the wall.

Annie and Ray ran into view, quickly disarming and cuffing both thugs, though the one Max had struck was completely inert and the handcuffs were probably superfluous. Annie had a knife out and was cutting Sam's bonds, asking him if he was all right. He nodded numbly and brushed her off, turning to look for Max.

Sam's breath caught as he found him, slumped against the wall, his white shirtfront red with blood. Chris was already leaning over Max, hands on his hips, looking a bit dismayed.

"Max!" Sam cried, pulling away from Annie and shoving Chris aside. "Call an ambulance. Now!" Max's skin had gone white, and he was cool and clammy. Sam pressed his hand to the wound, a well of blood spilling from Max's shoulder. Sam cradled Max's head in the crook of his elbow to keep it from the dirty pavement. Max's eyes fluttered but didn't open. "Hey, hey, Max, stay with me." He looked up. Gene and the others were standing around, watching Sam uncomfortably. "Do something!"

"There's nothing we can do, Sam," Gene replied. "The ambulance will be here in a mo'. You just sit tight."

The waiting passed in a blur, Sam aware of nothing but Max's shallow breaths and how weak his pulse was. It might have taken twenty minutes or two hours. They let Sam ride in the ambulance when it finally arrived. Max was rushed to surgery as soon as they reached the hospital. Sam too received medical attention, the doctor insisting he follow his finger with his eyes, and read from a chart and walk in a straight line.

"I'm keeping you overnight for observation," the doctor said and took a drag of his cigarette. "That was a nasty knock on the head and they can be quite tricky."

"Max Ellis, he's another patient here; how is he?"

The doctor shrugged and left him to the nurses, who showed Sam to a room and gave him a gown and a tray of … food. Sam couldn't be more specific. There was a grey mush and a smaller portion of green mush, possibly peas. He ate neither, but did change into the gown. Anything was better than that purple shirt, stained maroon with Max's blood.

Sam didn't think he'd be able to sleep, but he must have drifted off because the nurse woke him up twice during the night to give him medication and make him tell her where he was and who the prime minister was.

The next time he woke, it was morning or close enough. Dirty, grey light was just beginning to seep through the dirty, grey window. He got himself to the toilet, refusing to use the bedpan no matter how convenient it was. He washed his face in the sink, and his own reflection gave him a bad start. The face that stared back at him was haggard, in need of a shave, with dark circles and ashen skin. He ran his fingers through his hair and found a goose egg on the back of his head. He probed it with a wince and tried not to think about what kind of damage it might have done to his mental faculties.

There was no nurse at the desk when he got dressed and limped out, but the chart had been left out. He checked it without even a pang of guilt. That was Gene Hunt's influence and no mistake. _Ellis, Maxwell_ was out of surgery and in Room 203. He paused at the bottom of the stairs up to the second floor, then took a firm grip on the bannister and started up.

Max was hooked up to a respirator and I.V., his shoulder heavily bandaged, but alive. And to Sam's eye, he looked better than Sam himself did. But then, Sam had seen corpses who'd looked better than he did at the moment.

"Hello, Max," Sam said softly. He pulled up a chair and collapsed into it. Feeling a bit foolish, he took Max's hand. "I don't know if you can hear me – if you're here or in 1943 or something – but I wanted to thank you for saving my life. And the Guv's life, too." Max's hand was warm, the pulse strong. "He's not so bad, really. Rough around the edges. And the middle. And, all right, he's rough all the way through. And shockingly prejudiced and uncouth." Sam sighed, trying to collect his thoughts. "But he's a good cop, really. A good man deep down. He's a good … friend."

Sam put his feet up on a second chair. It had been six months since he'd come to the '70's permanently and he'd long since given up wondering why he was here or what his purpose was. He was here because he wanted to be.

Max stirred, and Sam sat up straighter, anxious. Max's eyes slowly opened and he gave a little sigh, looking up at Sam.

"Hi," Sam said.

"Why on Earth would I be in 1943?" Max asked, blinking slowly.

"It was just – never mind. I'll go and get the nurse—"

"Wait," Max said, his grip on Sam's hand tightening. "She'll want to change my bandage and I'm not up to that just yet." He smiled weakly. "You understand."

Sam hesitated, then said, "At least let me get you some water." He poured a cup from the pitcher on the bed-stand and helped Max take a long drink.

"That was very brave, you know."

Max's smile was wry and self-deprecating. "That was very foolish, you know. I confess in my youth I was possessed of a rather romantic streak – too many novels, I'm afraid. Thought I'd out-grown it, but apparently a bit of that feckless youth remains."

"Lucky for me," Sam said. "And the Guv, too, though I doubt you'll get a thank you from him."

"What's he want? Special commendation from the queen? Knighthood? If she gave those out to every tosser who brained someone in a fight, half of Manchester would be a Sir."

Sam turned to glare at Gene, who stood in the doorway, both hands braced on the frame.

"I'm not sure about the rest of Manchester, but I'm certain you would be," Max said sweetly.

"It wasn't a bad shot for a nancy. We were having something of a brown-trouser moment 'til you stepped in," Gene allowed, which was possibly the most generous thing Sam had ever heard him say. He might have continued, but the nurse came in, one of those old battle-axes whom even Gene couldn't intimidate.

"Come on then, Sammy," Gene said, collaring Sam and ushering him out. "Let's get you checked out of this shite-hole."

"You're in an excessively good mood," Sam said when Gene had finished encouraging the nurse at the front desk to release Sam without waiting for the doctor's orders. "You caught Perry," he guessed.

"Got him done up like a kipper," Gene confirmed. "And we found the book Robbie'd nicked on the premises. It was an account book of all the kids Perry'd had in his stable; half of them were under sixteen."

"But Max didn't recognise it as such?"

"It was in a code. Not a very good one; we'd've cracked it even if we didn't have Perry's man – the one with his brains intact – singing like a canary." Gene slid behind the wheel and Sam took his customary place in the passenger's seat. "Perry's going away for the rest of his life. Too bad for him his cellmate's going to be a bit old to be of interest to him. I'm sure the reverse won't be true."

"Yeah, good," Sam said.

"Good?! It's bloody brilliant." Gene twisted around to shoot Sam an irritated look for his lack of excitement.

"Could you drop me off at my flat? I think I'm going to take the day off."

"You don't want to come in and do the interviews yourself? It's your collar, Tyler. I'm man enough to admit it."

"I've still got a headache and I'm sure you'll do a very _thorough_ job. Really, Guv, I don't feel well," he added when Gene didn't look convinced.

"All right, but you've got to come out with the boys this evening. We're having a few celebratory pints."

"And what exactly makes a pint celebratory?"

"The number consumed."

"Ah." Sam nodded once. "I'll be there."

—

They'd already started drinking when Sam arrived – about three rounds in, he guessed. He accepted the pint Chris pressed into his hand, and they all raised their half-empty glasses to him as he took his customary seat.

"To the man of the hour!" Gene said. "To our very own Samantha!"

They all chorused, "To Samantha!" and Sam forced himself to smile and raise his own glass.

"Thanks, boys. And Annie," he added with a nod to Annie, who gave him a sympathetic look. Sam tried to think of something more to say, maybe something about all their effort and teamwork, but they seemed satisfied with that, so he sat back and let their good cheer wash over him.

Gene held court as they all recounted how the job had gone, Chris and Ray each jumping in with corrections and additions, acting out the bit with the crow-bar. Chris did a passable impression of surprise and stultification in the role of the brained thug.

They were there until the last call and Nelson chucked them all out.

"I'll give you a lift," Gene offered.

Sam was going to protest that his flat wasn't far, but it was pissing rain and his knee'd begun to hurt again. "All right. Though it'll be a miracle if you make it there without killing a pedestrian."

"Don't be daft. No pedestrians are out in this weather," Gene replied cheerfully. Perhaps he wasn't as drunk as he seemed, because he drove well enough. He even slowed down 'round the corners.

"Hold up," he said as he squealed to a stop before Sam's building. "I'll see you up to your flat in a moment, just let me finish me fag. You're unsteady as a new lamb. Can't have you going arse over tit down the stairs." He produced a flask from his pocket and took a swig, juggling it with his cigarette. "And you've been uncommon quiet over your drink."

"I'm just knackered," Sam said with a sigh. "And worried about Max."

"Don't fret; he's out of the woods now." Gene cleared his throat, the hand that wasn't holding the cigarette tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. "That Ellis is an all-right bloke. Brave for a poofter and a good lad to have in a tight spot. Also when you're in a bit of trouble."

Gene paused as though the next words came against his will. "Just … don't be bringing him 'round the station or going on all love-sick about him. You can bring him to the Christmas party, but no funny business." Gene pulled a disgusted face. "No holding hands, no copping a feel after you've been at the sloe gin. And if anyone asks, he's an old football mate." Sam stared, open-mouthed, until Gene said, "Quit looking at me like that."

Sam got his mouth closed, but forming words seemed to be beyond him. "I don't think anyone would believe Max was a footballer," he said finally.

"But do you or do you not fancy the pants off him?"

"I … can't believe I'm having this conversation." Sam watched rivulets of rain make and then change their paths down the windscreen. "Where have you got the cameras hidden? Or is this a bet, instead? Ray put you up to this?"

"It's not a wind-up. You're a good copper, Sam. We haven't always seen eye to eye, but I know a good copper when I see one, and I don't give a toss what he gets up to in his spare time. There's some officers who'd sack a man for going over all Dorothy, but I'm not one of them. Is what I'm trying to say here." Gene tugged at the neck of his shirt, his face flushed and sweaty.

"My God, next you'll be attending sensitivity training and holding diversity roundtables."

"Well, sod this for a game of soldiers!" Gene exploded. "I'm sorry I asked."

Neither of them moved or said anything for a few minutes, but Sam couldn't quite force himself out of the car.

"Look, Max is … an attractive man. A very attractive man—"

"I don't need to hear this," Gene said so quickly it became one word.

"But like I told you before: he's not my type. I won't be bringing him 'round to the Christmas party or anything like that."

"Well then," Gene said, his relief writ large. "That's good then." He slid out of the car and into the rain and Sam followed suit. He felt strangely self-conscious and strangely conscious of Gene, too, as the big man followed him up the stairs to his bed-sit. Like he had some kind of mental connexion, and he could just sense where Gene was in space from the tingling of his skin.

Sam unlocked his door and let himself in. Gene was still standing in the hall, almost expectantly.

"Do you want … to come in for a drink?" Sam tried.

"Might as well," Gene said, buoyantly. "One for the road and then I'm off." He swanned into Sam's flat, as much as a man his size could be said to 'swan'. He made himself at home, at any rate, inspecting the few possessions Sam had collected. "I'd've expected you to do a better job with the decorating."

Sam ignored that, instead hunting for a couple of cleanish glasses and pouring a small measure of whiskey into the first. He didn't even have to offer Gene the glass; he was already at Sam's elbow and taking it from his hand. Sam rolled his eyes and poured himself a glass. He turned; Gene hadn't moved away, so now they were nearly chest to chest. Sam shivered a little; he could feet the heat radiating off Gene like a sun-warmed statue.

"It's true then," Gene said, his voice soft and low, with a strange note Sam had never heard before. "You're queer?"

"I told you I don't fancy Max."

"Not talking about him," Gene said, leaning in just a bit.

Their faces were very close together. Sam seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. He felt feverish, light-headed, but for once he was certain it wasn't because of the concussion.

Sam licked his lips. "Guv?"

"Yeah, Tyler?"

"If I kissed you right now, you'd have to hit me, right?"

"Of course I would," Gene replied.

"Right."

"I'd have no choice but to belt you one."

"Thought so."

"Good."

And then Gene leaned forward and kissed Sam, right on the mouth. Sam had been expecting fireworks and an orchestral swell, but he felt … nothing. Gene's lips were on his, thin and a bit dry. And he really needed to shave. Sam was disappointed; he'd just jeopardised his job and for this?

But then Gene took Sam's face in his hands, changing the angle, and he licked his way into Sam's mouth and – oh. Oh.

Oh God.

Gene had Sam backed up against the counter of his little kitchen, pressed all down the length of him. Sam brought his hands up to Gene's chest, fighting for a little space, but Gene was having none of it.

"Guv. _Gene_," Sam said when he got the chance, and Gene grunted his approval. "Wait."

"You better have a damned good reason," Gene growled, and the pit of Sam's stomach did a weird fluttery thing.

"You're drunk."

"And it's Tuesday." Gene leaned in for another kiss and Sam's next protest had to wait until he broke it.

"You've got to stop," Sam said and he tried to say it with authority, but his traitorous hands were smoothing Gene's shirt over his chest and shoulders.

"I've yet to hear a compelling reason why."

"You're straight."

Gene made a little _mmm_ing noise, but Sam could tell his attention was elsewhere, his eyes on Sam's mouth and his pupils dilated. "So?"

Sam thought about all the things he should be saying. Like how he didn't want Gene to regret this in the morning. Like how _he_ didn't want to regret this in the morning. Perhaps something about self-hating closet cases and the fact that he didn't want to end up loving another one. Or pointing out that fucking the boss was _always_ a bad idea.

But then Gene ran a hand down Sam's back and he noticed Gene's heart hammering under his palm and Gene's erection pressing into his stomach and he found himself saying, "Fair enough," instead.

—

It was good, better than it had any right to be considering Gene had very little idea what he was doing and didn't take direction particularly well.

"S'not like I got up to this with the Missus," he grumbled after Sam offered some feedback. "Once children weren't in the offing, we didn't get up to much of anything."

"Mmm, yes, there, you've got it," Sam said, distracted. "And please don't talk about your ex in bed."

They took it slow, considering Gene's inexperience, Sam's injuries, and the springs in Sam's narrow bed, which had the tendency to shriek when bounced upon. But all in all, it was nice – excellent, even.

Afterward, Gene rose and dressed without turning on the light.

"You could stay, if you liked," Sam said, and thought he hit that casual, _it's no trouble to me either way_ tone well enough.

"That's not a bed, it's an implement of torture. And it's too small, besides," Gene said. "I'll see you at work, then?" Sam nodded, busy arranging his pillow. "Good."

And he was gone.

Sam slept better than he had any right to, sleeping right through his alarm and almost making him late for work. It wasn't until he was brushing his teeth with one hand and shrugging into his coat with the other that the full import of what he'd done hit him. He'd slept with Gene Hunt, notorious homophobe and his superior. Never mind jumping off buildings – _that_ was suicide.

He thought about calling in and saying he still wasn't up to coming in, but that felt like an admission of defeat. So he girded his loins and went in.

The building was overrun with adolescents, lounging on the spare furniture, set up on camp-beds in the hallway.

"You got a light?" one asked Sam as he entered. The boy couldn't have been past fourteen.

"You're too young to be smoking," Sam said, his brow furrowing, pushing past the boy and trying to make it to his desk. "Go and drink some milk or something."

"Yeah, fuck you very much," the boy shouted at him.

A very frazzled-looking Phyllis intercepted him. "I've put them up where I can. Most of them are in the cells but the rest are out here."

"These are Perry's boys?" he asked.

"The ones we could find; the rest are holed up somewhere. Chris and Ray are out looking for 'em. Annie and I've got our hands full here. This lot kept trying to escape 'til we fed 'em. Now I'm afraid we won't get rid of them. It's cost most of this month's budget just to feed 'em. I've been running about like a blue-arsed fly since they got here."

"Oi, granny, you got any of them juices left?" a tall lad with hair dyed an aggressive blue-black asked.

"Look for yourself, Andrew," she snapped. "And I'm not your gran."

"Thank God," the youth muttered and slunk off.

"I'm at me wits' end," she said to Sam. "The Guv won't hand 'em over to protective services 'til he's got 'em all interviewed."

"Well, you're doing an admirable job," Sam offered. "We'll get them cleared through as soon as possible. Just a little bit longer. Please. Thank you." He patted her awkwardly and beat a path to his desk. Annie was breaking up a fight, trying to physically separate the two combatants, who paid her no mind, gamely swinging around her as she tried to squeeze between them.

"Hey, hey, hey," Sam said, grabbing the first by the collar and hauling him away. "No fighting! Or I'll beat you to a blood pulp, so help me God."

"Police brutality!" the brat shouted. "You coppers are all alike."

"You better believe it," Sam said, cuffing him lightly.

"Oh, Sam," Annie breathed in relief. "Take that one back, it's his turn for an interview anyway. And you," she took a firm grip on the other boy's ear, "you're comin' with me."

Sam marched his own prisoner back to the interrogation/storage room.

"And stay out of trouble – the next time I see you I won't be in such a good mood!" The door flew open and another teenager, this one blond, stumbled out of it as Gene gave him a final shove.

"Here's the next one, Guv," Sam said, propelling his ward into the room. The kid, faced with Gene Hunt in all his glory, suddenly put on the brakes and Sam nearly carried him into the room and set him down in the chair.

"Now then," Gene said, brushing his hands off and turning to the kid. "Let's get started."

The tape recorder was on the table, though Sam guessed Gene hadn't been using it. He pushed Play and said, "Twenty-eighth of April, 1974. 9:15 am. Present in the room are DCI Gene Hunt and DI Sam Tyler."

"What's your name, lad?" Gene said and took the chair next to Sam.

"Go on," Sam said, keeping his tone gentle. "You're not in trouble."

"Larry Kinney, Sir." Larry's entire face seemed to be eyes, with a small nose and no chin to speak of.

"When were you born, Larry?"

"Third of June, 1959," Larry said, keeping his eyes on Sam, but stealing an occasional nervous look at Gene. Jesus, he was young.

"And did you work for Mr Perry?"

The boy bit his lip and shifted in his seat.

"He can't hurt you, lad, not any more," it was Gene who spoke up, surprising Sam. "He's going away for a very long time. We'll protect you."

"Yah, I worked for him." Larry worried at a hangnail on his thumb; his fingernails were all bitten to the quick.

"Did you know Robert Carter?"

Larry nodded. "He'd look out for me sometimes, when the other boys started fights. He hated Mr Perry, said he wasn't nice. That the coppers would finally take 'im away. I didn't believe him, but he promised."

"How did he know that Mr Perry would be arrested?" Sam asked, exchanging a quick look with Gene.

"Dunno. But he seemed sure. He said he'd be leaving for good; he weren't going to work for Mr Perry, but he was going to make sure Mr Perry weren't going to hurt kids anymore."

"The book," Sam said to Gene, who nodded.

"He knew it'd be enough to send Perry away," Gene said and gave a low whistle. "Smart lad. Brave lad."

"Larry, what kind of work did you do for Mr Perry?" Sam asked, trying not to let his own anxiety show.

Larry shrugged and tore at the hangnail, which began to bleed. He stuck his thumb in his mouth. "All kinds of things, running goods and such."

"He had you deliver drugs?" Sam asked, and Larry nodded.

"Sometimes it were drugs, sometimes money. Sometimes it were just notes and things."

"What else did he have you do?" Sam asked as gently as he could.

Larry shrugged, refusing to look up from his hands.

"You can tell us," Sam said. "You don't have anything to be ashamed of."

"Who're you going to tell?" Larry asked in a very small voice. "It'd kill me ma."

"We're not going to tell anyone," Gene said.

"Not your name," Sam added quickly. "We'll use your testimony to make sure he stays in gaol, but no one needs to know it was you."

"He'd pay me to be nice to his clients." Larry's voice cracked and he scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"How nice?" Gene pressed.

Sam nudged his ankle under the table and mouthed, "_Gently_."

"Did they touch you?" Sam asked instead, and Larry nodded, head hanging so low his chin was nearly to his chest. "Larry, it's not your fault. Do you want to wait a little bit before we continue?" Larry nodded again.

Sam glanced at Gene, ready to argue if need be, but Gene nodded.

"Buzz along. Go and see if WPC Dobbs has got any chocolate for you," Gene said and made a shooing gesture. "And have her send the next one in." The boy stood and ran, the door slamming behind him.

"They've all been like that," Gene said.

"God." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't suppose we could get some kind of child psychologist or counsellor in here. I'm not equipped to handle this kind of trauma." He looked over at Gene, who wearing his I-think-you've-probably-gone-'round-the-bend expression. "No, of course not. What are the odds we're going to traumatise them further anyway?"

"Don't go to pieces on me now, Sammy," Gene said.

"I'm not," Sam said. "I'm fine. Peachy keen. Who wouldn't be?"

"Good, because I need you on this case. Ray and Chris're useless with poofter stuff." Gene pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one before holding it out to Sam, who took it. He didn't smoke, usually, but if a situation ever called for one it was this one. "You're the only one with insight into all … this."

Sam didn't know what to do with that, so he said, "The irony is that most of these kids aren't even gay, just desperate."

"Desperate, eh? And I suppose you—" Gene started, his tone queer, but before he could elaborate, their next witness entered: a fourteen-year-old with a bad haircut and a heroin addiction.

—

The rest of the morning was spent in similarly depressing interviews. Boys who'd been beaten down, abused physically, sexually, and emotionally until all that was left were their empty eyes and their anger.

After noon, the people from social services arrived and as the only member of the team with tact – excepting Annie, and she was busy with the boys – Sam was left to negotiate. Some of the boys had loving families they could be returned to, but they were few and far between; most of them had families that they had been desperate to leave or who refused to take them back. Quite a few had no families at all.

"Look, you can't just ship them all off to the next-of-kin sight unseen," he explained, for the third time. The woman tugged on the cuffs of her dark blue suit, unimpressed.

"We have limited resources and must allocate those resources to the children with greatest need. Those who have families who are able to take them will be returned to them. I understand that you don't think this situation is ideal, and I respect your opinion given your long years of service and extensive knowledge of child safety procedure," the irony was dripping here, "but I'm afraid that's how it is, DI Tyler."

"Oh, get stuffed," Sam said, his patience long since shot. He left her to herd a few more of the boys out and into the van she'd brought with her. A few of the boys were going to remain housed at CID overnight. The cells didn't make the most comfortable accommodations, but Sam was sure they'd slept in worse.

He turned and caught Annie sneaking a flask out of her desk drawer. She started guiltily when she realised he was watching her.

"Sorry, Boss. Long day," she explained and took a swig anyway.

"Go on, get out of here. It's late," he said and she grinned ruefully. He glanced at the clock and was shocked to see it really was late, and as if that wasn't enough to remind him, his stomach growled.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," she said, gathering up her coat. "You won't stay much longer?"

"No," he said. The light in Gene's office was still on. "I've just got a bit more to finish up."

He knocked on the Guv's door when she'd gone. For the first time in days CID was quiet and empty. He didn't wait for an answer, but let himself in. Gene sat at his desk, tie loosened and collar undone, a bottle and glass out and on his desk.

"Don't you knock?"

"I did knock." Sam shut the door behind him and leant against it.

"Don't you wait for an answer?"

"Only at my mum's house. Learned that one the hard way." Normally that would have earned him a smile, but Gene hadn't even registered the comment, instead going back to staring into the middle distance with a slightly glassy expression. "Guv?"

"Sit down, Tyler." He poured a finger of whiskey into the glass and pushed it over to Sam, then took a swig straight from the bottle.

"Don't go to pieces on me, Guv," Sam said.

"All these lads – good lads, mostly – Robbie Carter died trying to save them. And he had to because some cunt-faced bastard thought no one would give a shit if they lived or died. They could just disappear through the cracks and no one would notice. And he was right. Right here," Gene tapped his desk with an index finger, "In _my_ city. On _my_ watch."

"But you did notice."

"_You_ noticed."

"_We_ noticed. And _we_ got Perry."

Gene shook his head, dismissing the victory. "Doesn't help all the others."

"Gene," Sam said, and he looked up. "You can't save everyone. No matter how hard you try, you won't ever be perfect. There will be people you can't save. Robbie. Your brother."

Gene swallowed thickly, his eyes shining. "Don't go bringing my brother into this. You never know when to leave well enough alone, Tyler."

"I'm just going to say this once, since I know you don't have any emotions and wouldn't want to talk about them if you did, but, Guv: it's not your fault. And if it weren't for you Larry and all those boys out there would still be working for that bastard. Manchester is a little safer because you're on watch. So you can sit there and drink and feel sorry for yourself, or …"

"Or what?" Gene prompted, eyes narrowed.

"Or we could go and get a bite and watch a programme on the telly. Or not watch a programme on the telly."

Gene pursed his lips as he considered, finally saying, "If those are my options, then I suppose I'll be along directly."

Sam nodded once, not quite smiling. "I'll be waiting."


End file.
